






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 
"PSV/97 

(fyqt Ciipgrigfct ^a 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 









iiESwii 





FOREST RUNES 



BY 



GEORGE W. SEARS, 

(nessmuk). 




NEW YORK: 
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO., 









c^ 



COPYRIGHT, 1887., 

BY THE 

FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO. 



y 




DEDICATION. 



TO MY BROTHER CHARLES. 



NOT that the gift of poesy is mine, 
Nor that I claim the poet's meed of praise, 
But in remembrance of the golden days 
Of youth, have I inscribed these simple lays 
To thee, my brother, and to auld lang syne. 

The rolling years have thinned our locks of brown 
To a scant fleece of salt-and-pepper gray ; 
More rapidly the seasons pass away ; 
With steadier, slower beat our pulses play ; 

We like the country rather than the town, 

And have a strong dislike to noise and riot. 
The fire of youth no longer warms our veins ; 
And, being subject to rheumatic pains, 
We grow prophetic as to winds and rains, 

And like to be well fed, well clothed, and quiet 



iv DEDICATION. 

That we are past our youth is all too plain ; 
And nearing rapidly the Dark Divide. 
Oh, passing weary is this middle tide 
Of life, which I would give, with aught beside, 

To live one year of boyhood o'er again ! 

It may not be. The wrinkles on each face 
Are past erasure : and not many years 
Can glide ere one of us with blinding tears 
Shall stand beside the marble which uprears 

Above a friend the world can not replace. 



NESSMUK 



It is a sad necessity that compels a man to speak often or 
much of himself. Most writers come to loathe the first person 
singular, and to look upon the capital / as a pronominal calam- 
ity. And yet, how can a man tell aught of himself without 
the " eternal ego ? " 

I am led to these remarks by a request of my publishers that 
I furnish some account of myself in issuing this little volume 
of verse. Readers who take an interest in the book will, as a 
rule, wish to know something of the Author's antecedents, they 
think. It might also be thought that the man who has spent a 
large share of the summer and autumn months in the deep 
forests, and mostly alone for fifty years, ought to have a large 
stock of anecdote and adventure to draw on. 

It is not so certain, this view of it. The average person is 
slow to understand how utterly monotonous and lonely is a 
life in the depths of a primal forest, even to the most incorrigi- 
ble hunter. Few city sportsmen will believe, without practical 
observation, that a man may hunt faithfully in an unbroken 
forest for an entire week without getting a single shot, and one 
wet week, especially if it be cold and stormy, is usually enough 
to disgust him who has traveled hundreds of miles for an out- 
ing at much outlay of time and money. 

And yet, this is a common experience of the most ardent still 
hunter. 

In the gloomy depths of an unbroken forest there is seldom 
a song bird to be heard. The absence of small game is remark- 
able ; and the larger animals, deer, bears, and panthers, are 
scarce and shy. In such a forest I have myself hunted faith- 



vi "nessmuk." 

fully from Monday morning till Saturday night, from daylight 
until dark each day, and at the end of the last day brought the 
old double-barreled muzzle loader into camp with the same 
bullets in the gun that I drove home on the first morning. 
And I crept stealthily through the thickets in still-hunting moc- 
casins on the evening of the last day with as much courage and 
enjoyment as on the first morning. For I knew that, sooner or 
later, the supreme moment would come, when the black, satiny 
coat of a bear, or the game-looking " short-blue " coat of a 
buck would, for an instant, offer fair for the deadly bead. 

And once, in a dry, noisy, Indian summertime, I am ashamed 
to say, I still-hunted 17 days without getting one shot at a deer. 
It was the worst luck I ever had, but I enjoyed the weather 
and the solitary camp-life. At last there came a soft Novem- 
ber rain, the rustling leaves became like a wet rug, and the 
nights were pitch dark. Then the deer came forth from 
swamps and laurel brakes, the walking was almost noiseless, 
and I could kill all I could take care of. 

It is only the born woods crank who can enjoy going to the 
depths of a lonely forest with a heavy rifle and stinted rations, 
season after season, to camp alone for weeks at a stretch, in a 
region as dreary and desolate as — Broadway on a summer 
afternoon in May. 

It is only the descendants of Ananias who are always meet- 
ing with hair-breadth escapes and startling adventures on their 
hunting trips. To the practical, skilled woodsman, their won- 
derful stories bear the plain imprint of lies. He knows that the 
deep forest is more safe than the most orderly town ; and that 
there is more danger in meeting one " bridge gang " than there 
would be in meeting all the wild animals in New York or Penn- 
sylvania. 

These facts will explain why I have so little to relate in the 
way of adventure, though my aggregate of camp-life, most of 
it alone, will foot up at least 12 years. 

I can scarcely recall a dozen adventures from as many years' 
outings, culled from the cream of fifty seasons. Incidents of 



" NESSMUK. vll 

woods life, and interesting ones, are of almost daily occurrence ; 
and these, to the ardent lover of nature, form the attraction of 
forest life in a far greater degree than does the brutal love of 
slaughter for the mere pleasure of killing something just 
because it is alive. 

Just here my literary Mentor and Stentor, who has been 
coolly going through my MSS., remarks sententiously, " Better 
throw this stuff into the stove and start off with your biography. 
That is what the Editor wants." I answer vaguely, "Story? 
Lord bless you ; I have none to tell, sir. Alas ! there is so little 
in an ordinary, humdrum life that is worth the telling. And there 
is such a wilderness of biographies and autobiographies that no 
one cares to read." 

"Well, you've agreed to do it, you know, and no one is obliged 
to read it. It will make ' filling ' any how ; and probably 
that's all the Editor wants." Which is complimentary and 
encouraging. 

" I must say it's the toughest job of penwork I ever tackled : 
I don't know how to begin." 

" Pooh ! Begin in the usual way. Say you were born in 
the town of — " 

" There's where you're out. I wasn't born in any town what- 
ever, but in what New Englanders call a 'gore ' — a triangu- 
lar strip of land that gets left out somehow when the towns are 
surveyed. They reckon it in, however, when it comes to taxes ; 
but it rather gets left on schools." 

" Ah, I can believe it. Well, fix it up to suit yourself. I 
suppose the Editor keeps a ' balaam box.' " 

Taking his leave and a handful of my Lone-Jack, C. saunters 
off to the village, and I am left to myself. Perhaps his advice 
is good. Let's see how it will work on a send-off. For instance, 
I was born in a sterile part of sterile Massachusetts, on the 
border of Douglas Woods, within half a mile of Nepmug Pond, 
and within three miles of Junkamaug Lake. This startling 
event happened in the " South Gore," about 64 years ago. I 
did not have a fair average start in life at first. A snuffy old 



Y1U " NESSMUK. 

nurse who was present at my birth was fond of telling me in 
after rears a legend like this : " Ga-a-rge, you on'y weighed fo' 
pounds when you wuz born, 'n' we put ye inter a quart mug 
'n' turned a sasser over ye." 

I could have killed her, but I didn't. Though I was glad 
when she died, and assisted at her funeral with immense satis- 
faction. 

Junkamaug Lake is six miles long, with many bays, points, 
and islands, with dense thickets along its shores at the time of 
which I speak, and a plentiful stock of pickerel, perch and 
other fish. It was just the sort of country to delight the Indian 
mind ; and here it was that a remnant of the Nepmug Indians 
had a reservation, while they also had a camp on the shores of 
Nepmug Pond, where they spent much time, loafing, fishing, 
making baskets, and setting snares for rabbits and grouse. 
They were a disreputable gang of dirty, copper-colored vaga- 
bonds, with little notion of responsibility or decency, and too 
lazy even to hunt. 

There were a few exceptions, however. Old Ja-ha was past 
90, and the head man of the gang. He really had a deal of the 
old-time Indian dignity ; but it was all thrown away on that 
band of shiftless reprobates. There were two or three young 
squaws, suspiciously light of complexion, but finely formed and 
of handsome features. " I won't go bail for any thing beyond." 

The word Nepmuk, or, as it is sometimes spelled, Nepmug, 
means Wood-duck. This, in the obsolete lingo of the once 
powerful Narragansetts. The best Indian of the band was 
" Injun Levi," as the whites called him. He was known among 
his tribe as " Nessmuk ;" and I think he exerted a stronger in- 
fluence on my future than any other man. As a fine physical 
specimen of the animal man I have seldom seen his equal. 
As a woodsman and a trusty friend he was good as gold ; 
but he could not change the Indian nature that throbbed in 
every vein and filled his entire being. Just here I can not do 
better than reproduce a sketch of him and his tribe w T hich 
appeared in the columns of Forest and Stream in December, 



" NESSMUK. IX 

1 88 1. I will add that Junkamaug is only a corruption of the 
Indian name, and the other names I give as I had them from the 
Indians themselves : 

u # # * And I remain yours sincerely, Nessmuk, which 
means in the Narragansett tongue, or did mean, as long as 
there were any Narragansetts to give tongue, Wood-duck, or 
rather, Wood-drake. 

" Also, it was the name of the athletic young brave, who was 
wont to steal me away from home before I was five years old, 
and carry me around Nepmug and Junkamaug lakes, day after 
day, until I imbibed much of his woodcraft, all his love for 
forest life, and alas, much of his good-natured shiftlessness. 

" Even now my blood flows faster as I think of the rides I 
had on his well-formed shoulders, a little leg on either side of 
his neck, and a death-grip on his strong, black mane ; or rode, 
'belly-bumps,' on his back across old Junkamaug, hugging 
him tightly around the neck, like a selfish little egotist that I 
was. He tire ? He drown ? I would as soon have thought to 
tire a wolf or drown a whale. At first, these excursions were 
not fairly concluded without a final settlement at home — said 
settlement consisting of a head-raking with a fine-toothed comb 
that left my scalp raw, and a subsequent interview, of a private 
nature, with 'Par,' behind the barn, at which a yearling apple 
tree sprout was always a leading factor. (My blood tingles a 
little at that recollection too.) 

" Gradually they came to understand that I was incorrigible, 
or, as a maiden aunt of the old school put it, ' given over ; ' 
and, so that I did not run away from school, I was allowed to 
' run with them dirty Injuns,' as the aunt aforesaid expressed it. 

" But I did run away from school, and books of the dry sort, 
to study the great book of nature. Did I lose by it ? I can not 
tell, even now. As the world goes, perhaps yes. No man can 
transcend his possibilities. 

" I am no believer in the supernatural : mesmerism, spirit- 
ualism, and a dozen other 'isms are, to me, but as fetish. But, 
I sometimes ask myself, did the strong, healthy, magnetic 



X "NESSMUK. 

nature of that Indian pass into my boyish life, as I rode on his 
powerful shoulders, or slept in his strong arms beneath the 
soft whispering pines of 'Douglas Woods ?' 

" Poor Nessmuk ! Poor Lo ! Fifty years ago the remnant 
of that tribe numbered thirty-six, housed, fed and clothed by 
the state. The same number of Dutchmen, under the same con- 
ditions, would have over-run the state ere this. 

" The Indians have passed away forever ; and, when I tried 
to find the resting place of my old friend, with the view of 
putting a plain stone above his grave, no one could point out 
the spot. 

"And this is how I happen to write over the name by which 
he was known among his people, and the reason why a favorite 
dog or canoe is quite likely to be called Nessmuk." 

The foregoing will partly explain how it came that, ignoring 
the weary, devious roads by which men attain to w T ealth and 
position, I became a devotee of nature in her wildest and rough- 
est aspects — a lover of field sports — a hunter, angler, trapper, 
and canoeist — an uneducated man, withal, save the education 
that comes of long and close communion with nature, and a 
perusal of the best English authors. 

Endowed by nature with an instinctive love of poetry, I 
early dropped into the habit of rhyming. Not with any 
thought or ambition to become a poet ; but because at times a 
train of ideas would keep waltzing through my head in rhyme 
and rhythm like a musical nightmare, ixntil I got rid of measure 
and metre by transferring them to paper, or, as more than 
once happened, to white birch bark, when paper was not to 
be had. 

I never yet sat down with malice .prepense to rack and 
wrench my light mental machinery for the evolution of a 
poem through a rabid desire for literary laurel. On the con- 
trary, much of the best verse I have ever written has gone to 
loss through being penciled on damp, whitey-brown paper or 
birch bark, in woodland camps or on canoeing cruises, and 



" NESSMUK. XI 

then rammed loosely into a wet pocket or knapsack, to turn up 
illegible or missing when wanted. When 

" I looked in unlikely places 

Where lost things are sure to be found," 

and found them not, I said, all the better for my readers, if I 
ever have any. Let them go with the thistle-down, far a-lee. 
(The rhymes, not the readers.) 

I trust that the sparrow-hawks of criticism, who delight 
equally in eulogising laureates and scalping linnets, will deal 
gently with an illiterate backwoodsman who ventures to plant 
his moccasins in the realms of rhyme. Maybe they will pass 
me by altogether, as 

" A literary tomtit, the chickadee of song." 

There must be a few graybeards left who remember Ness- 
muk through the medium of Porter s Spirit of the Times, in 
the long ago fifties ; and many more who have come to regard 
him kindly as a contributor to Forest and Stream. If it happens 
that a thousand or so of these have a curiosity to see what sort 
of score an old woodsman can make as an off-hand, short-range 
poet, it will be a complimentary feather in the cap of the 
author, 

Wellsboro, Pa., Oct. 9th, 1886. Geo. W. Sears. 



CONTENTS 



My Attic, -------- 17 

Crags and Pines, ------- 19 

Stalking a Buck, - - - - - - - 21 

Hunting Song, ------- 23 

A Summer Camp, ..-----24 

Sunrise in the Forest, ------ 26 

October, -------- 27 

New Year's Eve in Camp, ..... 29 

Lotos Eating, - - - - - - - 3 1 

My Forest Camp, ..---- 33 

My Hound, -------- 35 

Mickle Run Falls, - - - - - - 37 

A Fragment, - - - - - - - - ' 3^ 

Our Camping Ground, ..---- 39 

Watching the River, - - - - - • - 4 1 

Flight of the Goddess, ------ 42 

On the Death of Buffie, ...... 45 

Why I Love Hiawatha, ------ 47 

That Trout, -------- 54 

Breaking Camp, ------- 56 

My Neighbor Over the Way, .... - 58 

Pauper Plaint, ------- 60 

John O' the Smithy, ------- 61 

The Doers, ..=.---- 64 



Xiv CONTENTS. 

Surly Joe's Christmas, .... 65 

The Genius Loci of 'Wall Street, - - 67 

From the Misanthrope, ..... 69 

Gleaning After the Fire, - - 81 

Lines for the Times, ------- 83 

Drawers and Hewers, ------ 86 

1 '^heartened, ....... 89 

The Smiths, .... - 91 

To John Bull on his Christmas, ----- 93 

Our Little Prince, ..... 95 

It Does not Pay, ..--,-- 97 

The Hunter's Lament, .... - 99 

Ida May, -------- 102 

lone, ..----.- 103 

All Things Come Round, - - - - - - 105 

My Woodland Princess, - - - 107 

Remembered— L. K., - - - - - - 109 

Mother and Child, - - - - - - no 

Bessie Irelan, - - - - - - - 112 

A Little Grave, - - - - - - - 114 

A Summer Night, - - - - - - - 116 

Wreck of the Gloucester, - - - - - 118 

Haste, - - - - - - - - 119 

A Christmas Entry, - - - - - - 120 

Two Lives, - . - - - - - - - 122 

Elaine, ------- 124 

Anna Fay — on Skates, ..---. 125 

Paraphrase on "Brahma," - - 128 

The Retired Preacher, - - - - - - 129 

Waiting for Her Prince, - - - - - - 132 

May, --------- 135 

Isabel Nye, ------- 136 

Deacon John, ------- 138 

Hannah Lee, ------- 141 

At Anchor, -------- 143 



CONTENTS. XV 

The Cavan Girl, .-•_... 145 

Old Johnny Jones, ...... 146 

In the Tropics, ---..... 147 

The Mameluco Dance, - - - - - - 151 

A Tropical Scrap, - - - . . . -161 

Typee, ........ ifo 

To Gen. T. L. Young, ...... 164 

Roses of Imeeo, - - - - . - . 167 

A Dream of the Tropics, ...... 168 

Desilusano, - - - . . . . jto 

An Arkansas Idyl, - - - - . . .172 

The Scalp Hunter is Interviewed, ~ • • ' - - 177 
The Banshee of McBride, - - - . . -181 

How Miah Jones got Discouraged, - - - - 1S6 

Greeting- to the Dead, ...... 188 

New Year's Ode. — 1866, ------ 189 

Ballad of ye Leek Hook, - - - . . -191 

King Cotton, - - - - - . . 193 

Non Respondat, --.... 194 

Sixty-five and John Bull, --.... 196 

New Year's Ode, --..„.. I gg 

Crusading the Old Saloon, ..... 202 

Temperance Song, ........ 206 

O'Leary's Lament, ----... 208 

Wellsboro as a Temperance Town, ---... 209 



MY ATTIC. 

I HAVE an attic — not city made, 
Nor far removed from the fresh green earth, 
Strewn with the tools of a manly trade, 

And guns, and fiddles, and books of worth. 

A narrow window looks toward the town, 

Where, shown by waves of the summer breeze, 

Are checkered glimpses of white and brown, 
Peeping thro' maple and linden trees. 

A little brook that murmurs and flows, 

A little garden of well tilled land, 
And trees, not standing in stiff, straight rows, 

All planted and pruned by the owner's hand, 

Lovingly tended, thriftily grown, 

With many a quaint, odd crook and trend 

I know their names as I know my own, 
And every tree is a personal friend. 

At the first faint glimmer on rock and tree 
I rise, with the earliest blue-birds' trill. 

'Tis a freak of mine ; and I like to see 
The sunshine break on Losinger Hill ; 



1 8 FOREST RUNES. * 

For I like him best in his morning face, 
Untired with the daily rare he runs ; 

And I'm sometimes sad when he yields his place 
To the winds of night and the lesser suns. 

I ply the thread and the brightened awl 

To the runes that the woodland thrushes sing ; 

And the plash of a tiny waterfall 

Keeps merry time to the lapstone's ring. 

And little I reck, as I shape the sole, 
Of scanty clothing or empty purse, 

I sing the ballad of old King Cole, 
Or wear my leisure on simple verse. 

The man of millions shall pass away, 
His wealth divided, himself forgot, 

But better one leaf of deathless bay 
Than all the riches that rust and rot. 

And at rare, odd times, in the better moods, 
Some rustic verses to me are born, 

That may live, perchance, in their native woods 
As long as the crows that pull the corn. 



CRAGS AND PINES. 

WHO treads the dirty lanes of trade 
Shall never know the wondrous things 
Told by the rugged forest kings 
To him who sleeps beneath their shade. 

Only to him whose coat of rags 

Has pressed at night their royal feet 
Shall come the secrets, strange and sweet, 

Of regal pines and beetling crags. 

For him the Wood-nymph shall unlock 
The mystic treasures which have lain 
A thousand years, in frost and rain, 

Deep in the bosom of the rock. 

For this and these he must lay down 

The things that worldlings most do prize, 
Holding his being in her eyes, 

His fealty to her laurel crown. 



20 FOREST RUNES. 

No greed of gold shall come to him, 
Nor strong desire of earthly praise ; 
But he shall love the silent ways 

Of forest aisles and arches dim. 

And dearer hold the open page 

Of nature's book than shrewdest plan 
Bv which man cheats his fellow man, 

Or robs the workman of his wage. 



STALKING A BUCK. 

RESTING on leaves of feathery pine, 
Stilling my lurcher's eager whine, 
Stealthy and watchful I recline. 

Gray streaks are in the eastern sky : 
The morning breeze floats gently by, 
And all alert of hand or eye 

I watch the mist rise o'er the stream. 

Slowly athwart the copses gleam 

Bright streaks of sunlight ; and one beam 

Dashes against the wrinkled crag 
Where, mid the ferns and brake and rag- 
Wort, feeds alone a gallant stag. 

A hundred rods I needs must pass 

Through brake, and thorn, and rank wet grass, 

O'er fallen logs and deep morass. 

A clump of briars is gained unseen. 
Cautious, above the leafy screen 
I raise my head : with royal mien 



FOREST RUNES. 

And antlered brow of regal pride, 
His forefeet in the rippling tide, 
There stands the stag, his glossy side 

Turned fairly to me. True and fine 
The sights range up in deadly line — 
One sharp report — the stag is mine ! 

******** 

Beneath a rustic roof of bark 
Idly I course each rising spark, 
Limned on the hemlocks grim and dark. 

Red steaks are broiling, sweet and slow, 
And in the camp-fire's ruddy glow 
A crystal streamlet sings below. 

My lurcher, crouching at my side, 

In very joy and canine pride 

Keeps watch upon the antlered hide. 

Oh, for a heaven wherein the deer 
Shall be more plentiful than here — 
And brown October all the year ! 



HUNTING SONG. 

THE lovers of mammon but treasure up wrath, 
There's a specter that follows in glory's red path : 
A curse ever follows the gripers of gold, 
And the hearts of fame-seekers are callous and cold. 

I will build me a camp by a cool mountain spring, 
Where the trout play at eve and the wood thrushes sing ; 
I will roof it with bark ; and my snug sylvan house 
Shall be sweet with the fragrance of evergreen boughs. 

When the shadows of night settle down on the marsh, 
And the cry of the bittern booms sullen and harsh, 
The glow of my camp-fire shall glisten and shine 
Where the beech and the hemlock their branches entwine. 

When a boy, 'twas my chiefest of pleasures to make 
A rude camp in the forest, by river or lake, 
Where the rod and the rifle induced through the day 
The fatigue that at night passed so sweetly away. 

There were freshness and joy past the power of words 
In the crisp morning air and the voices of birds ; 
And 'twas sweet into slumber at night to decline 
By the low alto song of the evergreen pine. 



A SUMMER CAMP. 

THE sun is savage in sultry hollows, 
The hillside quivers with pulsing heat. 
With drooping wings the dusty swallows 
Are dotting the fence that lines the street. 

I leave the town with its hundred noises, 
Its clatter and whir of wheel and steam, 

For woodland quiet and silvery voices, 
With a camp of bark by a crystal stream. 

Oh, shrewd are the ways of town and city, 
Cunning in commerce and worldly wise, 

But hearts grow hardened to human pity, 
And tongues slop over with thrifty lies. 

Nearer to Him of the lowly manger 

Is the sun-tanned forester, broad and free, 

And the rugged hills in their native grandeur 
Are nearer the hills of Galilee. 

The feathery arms of firs and spruces 
Bend over the water that sleeps beneath, 

Where marish flowers by the quiet sluices 
Infold their sweets in a golden sheath. 



A SUMMER CAMP. 25 

And a small canoe of airy lightness 

Floats silently on the limpid stream, 
Where the norland birch in snowy whiteness 

O'erhangs the ripples that glance and gleam. 

Oh, peaceful and sweet are forest slumbers 
On a fragrant couch with the stars above, 

As the free soul marches to dulcet numbers 
Through dreamland valleys of light and love. 

And ever at night a sylvan goddess 

Glides into my camp with dance and song : 

In kirtle of green and snowy bodice 

She stays by my side the whole night long. 

She cools my forehead with dainty fingers, 
And smooths the wrinkles from brow and face 

With a pitying touch that clings and lingers 
About my spirit in every place. 

On emerald banks thick strewn with pansies 

We loiter away the dreamy days, 
And she dowers my soul with sylvan fancies 

That sprout and blossom in rustic lays. 

Why should I envy the laureate guinea, 

Or covet the muse that is held in fief ? 
I sing the ballads she prompts within me, 

And have no spite for the greener leaf. 



26 FOREST RUNES. 

With luckier bards I have no quarrel, 
I envy no brow its wreath of bays : 

1 know it is mine to miss the laurel, 
And the golden sheen of the leaf that pays, 

And I rest in the hope that each good fellow 
Will some time dwell in another land, 

Where hearts that are generous, true and mellow 
Will know each other, and understand. 



SUNRISE IN THE FOREST. 

THE zephyrs of morning are stirring the larches, 
And, lazily lifting, the mist rolls away. 
A paean of praise thro' the dim forest arches 
Is ringing, to welcome the advent of day. 
Is loftily ringing, 
Exultingly ringing, 
From the height where a little brown songster is clinging, 
The top of a hemlock, the uttermost spray. 



. 



OCTOBER. 



BY A STILL-HUNTER. 



THERE comes a month in the weary year, 
A month of leisure and peaceful rest, 
When the ripe leaves fall and the air is clear — 
October, the brown, the crisp, the blest. 

My lot has little enough of bliss ; 

I drag the days of the odd eleven — 
Counting the time that shall lead to this, 

The month that opens the hunter's heaven. 

And oh, for the mornings crisp and white, 
With the sweep of the hounds upon the track 

The bark-roofed cabins, the camp-fire's light, 
The break of the deer and the rifle's crack. 

Do you call this trifling ? I tell you, friend, 
A life in the forest is past all praise. 

Give me a dozen such months on end — 

You may take my balance of years and days. 



28 FOREST RUNES. 

For brick and mortar breed filth and crime, 
And a pulse of evil that throbs and beats. 

And men are withered before their prime 

By the curse paved in with the lanes and streets. 

And lungs are poisoned, and shoulders bowed, 
In the smothering reek of mill and mine ; 

And death stalks in on the struggling crowd — 
But he shuns the shadow of oak and pine. 

And of all to which the memory clings, 
There is naught so dear as the sunny spots 

Where our shanties stood by the crystal springs, 
The vanished hounds and the lucky shots. 
March 16, 1868. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE IN CAMP. 

MERCURY IO° BELOW ZERO, NORTHWEST GALE. 

THE winds are out in force to-night, the clouds, in light 
brigades, 
Are charging from the mountain tops across the everglades. 
There is a fierceness in the air — a dull, unearthly light — 
The Frost-king in his whitest crown rides on the storm to-night. 
Far down the gorge of Otter Run I hear the sullen roar 
Of rifted snows and pattering sleet, among the branches hoar. 
The giant hemlocks wag their heads against the midnight sky, 
The melancholy pine trees moan, the cedars make reply. 

The oaks and sugar maples toss their frozen arms in air, 
The elms and beeches bow their heads, and shriek as in despair. 
Scant shield to-night for flesh and blood is feather, hair, or fur : 
From north to south, for many a mile, there is no life astir. 

The gaudy jay with painted crest has stowed his plumes away, 
The sneaking wolf forbears to howl, the mountain cat to prey. 
The deer has sought the laurel brake, her form the timid hare, 
The shaggy bear is in his den, the panther in his lair. 



30 FOREST RUNES. 

From east to west, from north to south, for twenty miles around, 
To-night no track shall dint the shroud that wraps the frozen 
ground. 

I sit and listen to the storm that roars and swells aloof, 
Watching the fitful shadows play against the rustic roof, 
And as I blow an idle cloud to while the hours away, 
I croon an old-time ditty, in the minor key of A. 

And from the embers beams a face most exquisitely fair — 
The maiden face of one I knew — no matter when or where, 
A face inscrutable and calm, with dark, reproachful eyes, 
That gaze on me from limpid depths, or gusty autumn skies. 

And there may be a reason why I shun the blatant street, 
To seek a distant mountain glen where three bright waters meet. 
But why I shun the doors of men, their rooms a-light and warm, 
To camp in forest depths alone, or face a winter storm, 
Or why the heart that gnaws itself will find relief in rhyme, 
I cannot tell : I but abide the footing up of Time. 



LOTOS EATING. 

WHEN nor'west winds with sullen roar 
Swept round the ricks and stables, 
When winter, beaten off before, 

Began to turn the tables, 
When all was snug in barn and byre, 
When autumn rains were pouring, 
When bairns were ranting round the fire 
That up the lug was roaring, 

Then said our melancholy Jacques, 

As he his soles was heating, 
" Let's lay aside the plow and ax — 

I go for lotos eating." 
" Oh ho," said Fritz, with smiling phiz, 

" You've read to your confusion. 
You ought to know the lotos is 

An Eastern instituticn. 

" No doubt its powers are past belief — 

I'd like to taste the lotos. 
But you will scarcely find the leaf 

Among our hardy voters." 



32 



FOREST RUNES. 

Jacques hummed the Lass o' Balloch myle : 

Said he, " It's immaterial, 
And let us take a friendly smile — 

Pass round the liquid cereal." 

(We took our rye in liquid form.) 

So each drank off his liquor, 
The while outside the driving storm 

Grew heavier and thicker. 
We spread a bearskin on the floor 

And roused the sparkling fire, 
Then latched and barred the shaking door, 

For still the wind rose higher. 

With coat and overcoat and vest 

We improvised three couches, 
Then stretched our lazy limbs in rest, 

And drew our pipes and pouches. 
And as we blew an idle cloud 

The while the storm was beating, 
Said Jacques, " I'll leave it to the crowd 

That this is lotos eating. " 



MY FOREST CAMP. 

THAVE a camp in Yarnel Glen, 
A hunter's cabin, roofed with bark, 
Far from the noisy haunts of men, 

Where song of thrush or meadow lark 
Floats never on the somber air. 

When summer suns are fiercely hot 
And birds sit mute with drooping wing, 

Ofttimes I seek this lonely spot, 
My cabin by the mountain spring, 

And spend my days of leisure there. 

Perchance some book of pleasant vein 
May wile an hour of idle time. 

Perchance I choose the quaint refrain 
Of Chaucer or of Spenser's rhyme, 
Nor heed the failing day's decline. 

At night my forest bed I make 

On fragrant boughs, and sweetly dream 

Of deer or trout that I may take 
On mountain side or forest stream, 

With rifle true or silken line. 



34 FOREST RUNES. 

When autumn frosts have clothed the woods 

In hues of gold and crimson red, 
Again I seek these solitudes, 

The moss-grown spring and forest bed. 
Again I breathe the mountain air. 

Then give me but my forest home, 
My rifle, rod, and buoyant health, 

With freedom where I please to roam ; 
And take who will the banker's wealth, 

His sleepless nights of anxious care. 



MY HOUND. 

I HAVE wandered far in many a clime, 
And many a faithful friend have found, 
But done who better deserves my rhyme 

Than brave old Nigger, my faithful hound ; 
For never a man on land or sea 
Had truer ally or friend than he. 

His coat is sleek as an Arab steed, 

He is clean of limb as a yearling deer. 
A match for the greyhound in his speed, 
With a voice so loud and silvery clear 
You would swear, as he sweeps thro' the mountain dells, 
'Twas a musical chime of vesper bells. 

Often, when tired of this strife for bread, 

Have he and I wandered where gurgling rills 

In purity spring from their mountain bed 
In the ice-cold bosoms of distant hills ; 

And, leaving the world to its wearisome ways, 

Have built us a shanty and camped for days. 



36 FOREST RUNES. 

And often when night closed over our camp 
And he was away on the track of deer, 

Have I breathless listened to catch the tramp 

Of his pattering feet draw swiftly near. 
• I have listened till silence became a pain, 

But never yet did I listen in vain. 

I have lain by my camp-fire's glowing light 

And lazily fingered his silken ears, 
Till meeting his eye, so wistfully bright, 

My own has silently filled with tears 
As I thought with shame of some harsh rebuff 
To my poor dumb friend, when my mood was rough. 



MICKLE RUN FALLS. 

FRONT-FACING the east, where the Falls are down 
pouring, 
A fairy like rainbow is formed on the spray. 
Beneath it the waters are rushing and roaring 

To the pool, where by moonlight the brown otters play, 
Are rushing and roaring, are dashing and roaring, 
Away to the vale where the eagle is soaring, 

And the blue Susquehanna sweeps down to the bay. 

By the point of the rocks, at the foot of the mountain, 
Foaming over a boulder moss-covered and gray, 

Is bubbling and gushing a crystalline fountain 

Where the red deer are browsing the long summer day. 

Are daintily browsing, are warily browsing, 

Above the deep pool where the trout are carousing, 
And the slide of the otter is moist with the spray. 



A FRAGMENT. 



OH, leave this chase for place or gold 
Through legal quips and tangles, 
Which makes young eyes grow hard and cold, 
With crowsfeet at the angles. 

The miser's hoard but pays his board, 
With meager clothes and bedding, 

While oft he finds a golden road 
Exceedingly hard sledding. 

Then come, ye dwellers of the town, 

From shop, and lane, and alley, 
To where a river sparkles down 

A hemlock shaded valley. 

Take from your life one week of strife, 

And add a week of leisure, 
That memory may some future day 

Fall back upon with pleasure. 



OUR CAMPING GROUND. 

THERE is a spot where plumy pines 
O'erhang the sylvan banks of Otter, 
Where pigeons feed among the vines • 

That hang above the limpid water. 
There wood-ducks build in hollow trees, 
And herns among the matted sedges, 
While, drifting on the summer breeze, 
Float satin clouds with silver edges 

'Tis there the blue jay hides her nest 

In thickest shade of drooping beeches, 
The fish-hawk, statue-like in rest, 

Stands guard o'er glassy pools and reaches. 
The trout beneath the grassy brink 

Looks out for shipwrecked flies and midges, 
The red deer comes in search of drink, 

From laurel brake and woodland ridges. 

And on the stream a birch canoe 

Floats like a freshly fallen feather — 

A fairy thing, that will not do 

For broader seas or stormy weather. 



40 FOREST RUNES. 

The sides no thicker than the shell 

Of Ole Bull's Cremona fiddle — 
The man who rides it will do well 

To part his scalplock in the middle. 

Beneath a hemlock grim and dark, 

Where shrub and vine are intertwining, 
Our shanty stands, well roofed with bark, 

On which the cheerful blaze is shining. 
The smoke ascends in spiral wreath^ 

With upward curve the sparks are trending, 
The coffee kettle sings beneath 

Where smoke and sparks and leaves are blending. 

Upon the whole this life is well : 

Our lines are cast in pleasant places. 
And it is better not to dwell 

On missing forms and vanished faces. 
They have their rest beyond our bourn ; — 

We miss the old familiar voices. 
We will remember — will not mourn : 

The heart is poor that ne'er rejoices. 

We had our day of youth and May, 
We may have grown a trifle sober ; 

But life may reach a wintry day, 
And we are onlv in October. 



WATCHING THE RIVER. 4 1 

Then here's a round to every hound 

That ran his deer by hill or hollow, 
And every man who watched the ground 

From Barber Rock to Furman fallow. 



WATCHING THE RIVER. 

I WATCH by the river as, long ago, 
I watched by the waters of Mendon Mere. 
And what do I see, and what do I hear, 
As the river goes by in endless flow ? 

A fishhawk, watching the glassy pools ; 

A mountain, abutting upon the stream. 

An eagle, sailing with angry scream, 
And trout, and minnows, in swarming schools. 

A rugged vista of mountain spurs 
That crowd the river to left or right, 
Rough, granite boulders that crown the height, 

And a dark green ocean of pines and firs. 

And now as of old the woods are ripe 
With mystic murmur of sylvan sounds ; 
For over the hill are eager hounds, 

And a red deer running to win his life. 



FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS. 



[Answer to T. B. Aldrich's "Flight of the Goddess" in Atlantic Monthly, 
October, 1867.] 



I MET your Goddess, a week ago, 
In the mountains, a mile above Elk Run. 
Sitting where crystal springs out-flow 
To ripple away in shade and sun. 

She sat by the spring, on a fallen log, 

Sulkily leaning against a pine. 
And she welcomed me with my gun and dog — 

This sweetest maiden of all the Nine. 

I was ragged enough — and so was she — 
Had we been in the city's streets to beg. 

Her kirtle was rent above the knee — 
Shall I ever again see such a leg ? 

"She was sick of the city," so she said, 
Where all her lovers had played her false. 

Leaving her Delphian board and bed, 

For an earthly maid, who could flirt and waltz. 



FLIGHT OF THE GODDESS. 43 

She had treated her lovers like a queen, 

Dwelt in their attics through heat and cold ; 

Cheered them in sickness ; and wasn't it mean 
To whistle her off for place or gold ? 

Halleck, her lover in other days, 

Had used her worse than a heathen Turk. 

Had hung in a counting room her bays, 
And taken hire as a merchant's clerk. 

And as for Aldrich — perhaps he'd find 

'Twas something more than the muse would stand, 

To whistle her coolly down the wind 

For a Yankee Goddess with house and land. — 

I leaned the rifle against a tree, 

And knelt in the pine leaves at her feet. 

I pressed my cheek to the well turned knee 
And prayed — "O Goddess, divinely sweet, 

" Come with me to my hut of linden bark, 

Well strewn with the fragrant hemlock leaves. 

I will be thy deer : be thou my park : 

We will rest while the lonely night bird grieves. 

" I solemnly swear to never possess 

A dollar that I can call my own, 
To go an-hungered and ragged in dress, 

To love forever but Thee alone." 



44 



FOREST RUNES. 

She touched my forehead with finger tips 
That warmed like a camp-fire's ruddy glow. 

I pressed the peerless hand to my lips — 
It melted away like April snow. 

" Oh stay," I cried, with a feeble gasp, 
"Touch with thy sacred fire my lines." 

And I strove her vanishing form to clasp, 
As she fled and faded among the pines. 

And thus it comes that I love to dwell 
Afar from the clamor of busy men. 

Where the crystal waters sob and swell 
To sweet, low echoes that haunt the glen. 

And deep on the night I sometimes hear, 
In the soft round tops of the pines and firs, 

A rhythmic cadence so low and clear 
That I know the song can be only hers. 



ON THE DEATH OF BUFFIE. 

A handsome young hound, with a voice like a silver bugle. He made too 
much noise o' nights; and there be dull souls who prefer sleep to music. 
Buffie was poisoned by the very man whom he had serenaded for weeks ! 

PUIR BUFFIE. 

After the Lallans of Burns. 

GAE tell to a' the hunters roun' 
That Geordie's heart is sair cast down ; 
Wi' hirplin' step he treads the groun', 

An' hingin' head. 

Buffie, the wale o' youthfu' houn's, 

Puir Buffie's dead. 

Let ilka tod frae Butler's hill 

To Allen's swamp an' Merrick's rill, 

For vera joy bark loud an' shrill 

Wi' muckle glee. 
Puir Buffie's lyin' stark and still 

Out owre the lea. 

Had he been slain in open day 
By hoof or horn o' stag at bay, 
I wadna hae the heart to say 

It did him wrang : 
'Tis murd'rous an' unmanly play 

That gies the pang. 



46 FOREST RUNES. 

Na doubt but he at times might draw 

Ae sned o' beef wi' thievin' jaw, 

Or, aiblins on fine nights might blavv 

About the street, 
But if that faut's agin' the law, 

He couldna see't. 

Perhaps he might in pleasant weather 

Wi' ither tykes sometime foregather 

To fyke on grocer's wares. But whether 

He did or not, 
In spite o' a' their scauldin' blether's 

A triflin' faut. 

He maks the fourth o' lang eared frien's 
Wha followed me o'er hills an' glens 
Until they met untimely ends 

By murder sair. 
Their fauts were something less than men's, 

Their virtues mair. 

But Buffie dog, a long fareweel ! 
Nae doubt ye were a roguish chiel : — 
But aiblins there's anither field 

Where thou an' I 
Maun chance to fin' a cantie bield 

Ayont the sky. 



WHY I LOVE HIAWATHA. 

A TALE. BY CURTUS COMOS. 

OF all sweet poetic meters 
That the bards have ever chanted, 
From the days of old blind Homer 
To the times of poet Tupper, 
No one hath more pleasant chiming 
Than Longfellow's Indian legend 
When he sings of Hiawatha — 
Of heroic Hiawatha. 
Reason good have I to love it, 
Reason have I to be grateful, 
And thereby a tale is hanging. 

THE TALE. 

'Twas in frosty bright October . 
When the lofty sugar maples 
Don their robes of golden glory, 
When the graceful drooping birches 
Put on lemon colored vestments, 
When the walnuts or the beeches 



48 FOREST RUNES. 

All are garbed in russet yellow, 
While the gentle, albic maples 
Dress in royal robes of scarlet, 
Royal robes of gorgeous scarlet ; 
'Twas in brilliant hued October, 
When the smoky Indian summer 
Was upon the land in beauty, 
When the outlines of the mountains 
Seem like rolls of purple velvet, 
That with tomahawk and rifle 
Hied I to the primal forest — 
To the grand and silent forest. 

Oh the days of dreamy pleasure 
That I passed upon the mountain ; 

And the nights of sleepy leisure 
In my camp beside the fountain. 

Resting with my dog beside me 
Free from earthly botheration, 

None to question me or chide me — 
'Twas contentment's culmination. 

Summer rainbows are full pleasant 
With their hues in beauty blending, 

But they vanish with the present, 
And all pleasures have an ending. 



WHY I LOVE HIAWATHA. 

Thus it was on this occasion, 
That an idle, thoughtless fellow 

Of Milesian persuasion, 
Who was fond of getting mellow, 

Sought me over hill and mountain, 
Sought me ever till he found me 

In my camp beside the fountain 
With my hunting kit around me. 

Now, adieu to peace and quiet, 
For he hath a gallon bottle ; 

And he loveth noise and riot — 
With his cursed copper throttle. 

All night long the drouthy creature 
Howled and sang in his carouse, 

Of the battle of "Boyne wather," 
And the "Woman wid three cows." 

Told me tales of " Ould Killarney," 
Sang the song of " Norah Kreena," 

And, when tired of song and blarney 
Raised the deathly Irish " Keenah.' 

Yelling wildly, laughing gayly, 
With most impudent assurance 

Flourishing a big shelala— 
It was getting past endurance. 



49 



50 FOREST RUNES. 

Kept it up throughout the morrow, 
Howling like a dozen demons ; 

And I saw with dread and horror 
That the fellow had the tremens. 



Filling me with fear and loathing, 
Loading me with foul abuse, 

Seeing snakes upon his clothing, 
Rats and spiders on his shoes. 

And he threatened me with murder, 
Murder in the lonely forest, 
Thinking that I was a rival 
For the favors of his Mary : 
Mary in the isle of Erin, 
On the verdant banks of Shannon. 
Mary, who her troth had plighted 
To this drunken son of Connaught — 
To this wild, red headed paddy. 

And he dared me to a duel, 
Dared me to a deadly duel ! 
Swore that I should not escape him, 
But should fight him in the forest, 
He, with bottle and shelala, 
I, with tomahawk and rifle. 



WHY J LOVE HIAWATHA. 5 1 

Then to save my soul from murder, 
From the deadly sin of murder, 
Drew I forth a pocket volume 
Of the poem, Hiawatha ! 
Drew it forth ; and with a steady 
And determined recitation ; 
With a mono-tonous droning 
And undaunted resolution, 
Fell upon the raving paddy 
With the cadence of the rhythm. 

And in vain was all his striving 
'Gainst the measure of the poem. 
Vain was all his fierce invective, 
As I poured the soothing cadence 
On his wild and savage spirit. 
And he wilted at the drowsy 
And unceasing intonation ; 
Wilted at the lethean measure 
That, without remorse or pity, 
Closed about him like a mantle. 

And his eye grew calm and quiet ; 
Calm and quiet, and no longer 
Saw the rats, or snakes and spiders 
In his shoes, or on his clothing, 
And his knees grew weak and shaky ; 
Dull and heavy grew his eyelids ; 



52 FOREST RUNES. 

Till, his weary legs, jack-knifing, 
Gave a lurch into the shanty. 
In the shanty by the fountain, 
By the fountain in the forest, 
In the forest old and primal ; 
Where this wild shock-headed paddy 
Sank in weariness and weakness 
On my well-worn Indian blanket. 

Then I placed the little volume 

Where it served him for a pillow. 

Placed it where his head, recumbent, 

Rested on the blessed poem 

That had saved my soul from murder - 

From the fearful crime of murder ; 

Placed it there and quickly left him 

To involuntary slumber, 

While I mizzled for the clearings. 

Three long months I left him sleeping 

In the shanty by the fountain ; 

But at last my spirit smote me 

For the trick that I had played him, 

And again I took my rifle, 

Took my tomahawk and rifle, 

And my way into the forest, 

Trusting I might find him sober ! 



WHY I LOVE HIAWATHA. 

White hands crossed upon his bosom, 
Livid lips and nose ataunto, 
Red hair streaming o'er the volume, 
Sleeping sweetly, snoring softly — 
Such the state in which I found him. 
Then his shock-head I uplifted 
And withdrew the little volume 
Of the poem, Hiawatha ! 

Stirred he quickly in his slumber, 
Then with gasp and snort awakened, 
Sat on end, with eyes wild glaring, 
Shook his red mane like a lion, 
And roared out in tones of thunder : 
" Holy Mither ! Where's the botthle ? " 



53 



THAT TROUT. 

I'VE watched that trout for days and days, 
I've tried him with all sorts of tackle ; 
With flies got up in various ways, 

Red, blue, green, gray, and silver-hackle. 

I've tempted him with angle-dogs, 

And grubs, that must have been quite trying, 
Thrown deftly in betwixt old logs, 

Where, probably, he might be lying. 

Sometimes I've had a vicious bite, 
And as the silk was tautly running, 

Have been convinced I had him, quite : 
But 'twasn't him : he was too cunning. 

I've tried him, when the silver moon 
Shone on my dew-bespangled trowsers, 

With dartfish ; but he was " too soon " — 

Though, sooth to say, I caught some rousers ; 



THAT TROUT. 55 

And sadly viewed the ones I caught, 

They loomed so small and seemed so poor, 

'Twas finding pebbles where one sought 
A gem of price — a Kohinoor. 

I've often weighed him (with my eyes), 

As he with most prodigious flounces 
Rose to the surface after flies. 

(He weighs four pounds and seven ounces.) 

I tried him — Heaven absolve my soul — 

With some outlandish, heathenish gearing — 

A pronged machine stuck on a pole — 
A process that the boys call spearing. 

I jabbed it at his dorsal fin 

Six feet beneath the crystal water — 
'Twas all too short. I tumbled in, 

And got half drowned — just as I'd orter. 

Adieu, O trout of marvelous size, 

Thou piscatorial speckled wonder. 
Bright be the waters where you rise, 

And green the banks you cuddle under. 



BREAKING CAMP. 

(old style.) 

FAREWELL to our camp on the banks of the Eddy, 
Where we frightened the herons with laughter and song. 
Our skiff is hauled up and the knapsacks are ready — 
Our whiskey runs short, and the journey is long. 
The captain complains 
That it constantly rains, 
And swears he prefers a secession attack. 
For each rheumatic pain 
Makes it hard to abstain 
From crooking his elbow — to straighten his back. , 

Farewell to the spot where the doe came to water, 

And passed us in camp with the speed of the wind. 
(If I wanted to lie I would say that we shot her.) 
Farewell to the hounds that came limping behind. 
Farewell to the camp 
With its earwigs and damp, 
Its mountains and valleys, too rugged for use, 
Where each tramp after fish 
Made us ardently wish 
We had gone in more freely for cereal juice. 



BREAKING CAMP. 57 

Our flies were the finest, our hooks were the Kirby — 

But trout wouldn't rise with the water so high. 
And 'tis strange — but 'tis true — that the captain and Derby 
The more they got wet, were more thoroughly dry ! 

Farewell to the gnats 

That could bite through our hats, 
To savage musquitoes, and punkies and rain ; 

To the bright-flashing spires 

That went up from our fires, 
Till we camp on the banks of the Eddy again. 

June, 1869, 



MY -NEIGHBOR OVER THE WAY. 

1KNOW where an old philosopher dwells, 
A bearded cynic, of wit and sense, 
In a broad white web, with curious cells, 
On the sunny side of the garden fence. 
He passes the days in virtuous ease, 

Watching the world with his many eyes ; 
And I think he is sorry when he sees 

How his web entangles the moths and flies. 

I have a neighbor, a legal man — 

We meet on the sidewalk every day. 
(He is shrewd to argue and scheme and plan, 

Is my legal neighbor over the way.) 
He talks, perhaps, a trifle too much — 

But he knows such a vast deal more than I. 
We have in our village a dozen such, 

Who do no labor — the Lord knows why. 

But they eat and drink of the very best, 
And the cloth that they wear is soft and fine ; 

And they have more money than all the rest, 
With handsome houses, and plate, and wine. 



MY NEIGHBOR OVER THE WAY. 59 

And I ponder at times when tired and lame, 

How strangely the gifts of fortune fall, 
And wonder if we are not to blame, 

Who have so little, yet pay for all. 

Alas for the workmen over the land, 

Who labor and watch, but wait too long, 
Who wear the vigor of brain and hand 

On trifling pleasures, and drink, and song. 
Alas for the strength too much diffused, 

And the lights that lure from the better way, 
For the gifts and riches we have not used, 

And the true hearts beating to swift decay. 

Alas for the twig, perversely bent, 

And the tree of knowledge, to wrong inclined ; 
Alas that a dollar was ever spent 

Until the dollar was earned or mined. — 
But my neighbor is one who understands 

All social riddles ; and he explains 
That some must labor with calloused hands, 

While others may work with tongues and brains. 

Though he doesn't make it so very clear 
Why he should fare much better than one 

Who does more work in a single year 
Than he in all of his life has done. 



60 FOREST RUNES. 

But he argues me out of all demur 

With logic that fogs my common sense, 

And I think of the old philosopher, 

Whose "shingle " hangs by the garden fence. 



PAUPER PLAINT. 

WEAK and weary, tattered and torn, 
Knees and elbows bare to the blast, - 
Of all ambition and spirit shorn, 
Beaten at last. 

A dreary way is poverty's road, 

A dreary path was the bitter past. 
We cry relief from the galling load, 
Beaten at last. 

The creeds and dogmas are priestly lies, 

Into the teeth of the people cast. 
And thence it comes that the good, the wise, 
Are beaten at last. 

We labored while life was in its morn, 

Now we are old we faint and fast. 
We have the husks — but out of the corn 
Are beaten at last. 



JOHN O' THE SMITHY. 

DOWN in the vale where the mavis sings 
And the brook is turning an old-time wheel, 
From morning till night the anvil rings 

Where John O' the Smithy is forging steel. 
My lord rides out at the castle gate, 

My lady is grand in bower and hall, 
With men and maidens to cringe and wait, 
And John O' the Smithy must pay for all. 

The bishop rides in his coach and four, 

His grooms and horses are fat and sleek ; 
He has lackeys behind and lackeys before, 

He rides at a hundred guineas a week. 
The anvil is singing its "ten pound ten," 

The mavis pipes from his birken spray, 
And this is the song that fills the glen, 

John O' the Smithy has all to pay. 

The smith has a daughter, rosy and sweet, 
My lord has a son with a wicked eye : 

When she hears the sound of his horses' feet 
Her heart beats quicker — she knows not why. 



6 2 FOREST RUNES. 

She will know very well before the end ; 

She will learn to detest their rank and pride, 
When she has the young lord's babe to tend, 

While the bishop's daughter becomes his bride. 

There will be the old, old story to tell 

Of wrong and sorrow in places high. 
A bishop glozing the deeds of hell, 

The Priest and the Levite passing by. 
And the father may bow his frosted head 

When he sees the young bride up at the hall, 
And say 'twere better his child were dead. 

But John O' the Smithy must pay for all. 

The smith and his daughter will pass away, 

And another shall make the anvil ring 
For his daily bread and the hodden gray ; 

But the profits shall go to priest and king. 
And over the wide world, day by day, 

The smiths shall waken at early morn, 
Each to his task in the old dull way, 

To tread a measure of priestly corn. 

And the smith shall live on the coarsest fare 
With little that he may call his own, 

While the idler is free from work or care ; 
For the best of all must go to the drone. 



JOHN O' THE SMITHY. 63 

And the smith complains of the anvil's song, 

Complains of the years he has wrought and pined. 

For priests and rulers are swift to wrong 
And the mills of God are slow to grind. 

But a clear strong voice from over the sea 

Is piercing the murk of the moral night ! 
Time is, time was ; and time shall be 

That John O' the Smithy will have his right. 
And they who have worn the miter and crown, 

Who have pressed him sore in body and soul, 
Shall perish from earth when the grist is ground 

And the mighty miller has claimed his toll. 



THE DOERS. 

I SEE them ever before me, in street, in alley or lane. 
In seething slums of the city, where silent miseries lurk. 
The faces of grim endurance, the eyes of stoical pain, 

The stiffened muscles of labor, the rounded shoulders of 
work. 

Sweepers away of forests, workers of all that is wrought, 
Delvers in mine and workshop, Doers of all that is done. 

Lacking in effort never, all too meager of thought : 
Builders and winners of all that is built or won. 

Temple, cathedral or war-ship, pyramid, fortress or town, 
These have they modeled and molded, then sank to for- 
gotten graves, 

Furnishing food for the battles that come of miter and crown, 
To perish by generations, like serial waves. 

They form in the early morning, at the shriek of the demon 
steam, 

To march in the ranks of labor, with dull, mechanical tread ; 
They delve in the grimy work-shops like men in a weary dream. 

Alas, for the lifelong battle, whose bravest slogan is bread ! 



SURLY JOE'S CHRISTMAS. 65 

The earth is teeming with fullness that springs from the Doers' 
hand, 

And a little bird is singing, from the roof of a western grange, 
A strong heart-stirring epic, that rings throughout the land, 

And the burden of all his song is only change. 



SURLY JOE'S CHRISTMAS. 

YOUR holidays are naught to me. 
I do not care to hear or see 
Your jangling bells, or Christmas tree. 

With sad, dull eyes I watch the fire 
On Yule logs, having no desire 
For flame or fame that rises higher. 

A discontented, dull content, 

Much pain with little pleasure blent : 

I wonder where the summer went. 

Creed follows creed, fools follow fools ; 
Laws break through laws, rules alter rules, 
Myths breed a myth, schools gender schools. 



66 FOREST RUNES. 

And laws, and myths, and clashing creeds 
With rules and schools, and all that breeds 
Discord, what are they to our needs ? 

Nothing. An empty, weary sound : 
The howling of a prisoned hound : 
A mirage, hiding fertile ground. 

A whistling wind, whose tones escape 
By cornice, eaves, or gabled cape, — 
Intoned by architectural shape. 



THE GENIUS LOCI OF WALL STREET. 

DOWN in a wonderful city, near to the foulest slums, 
Where squalor and crime are rife, and the tide flows 
turgid and green, 
Where all are greedy and blatant, where peacefulness never 
comes, 
There squats a ravening reptile, Arachne, the Spider Queen. 

After the ways of the spider, her progeny crowd her back, 
Rest on her bristly thorax, or cling to her mottled sides. 

Only the wealth of a nation contents the ravenous pack, 
The fat of the land, with the commerce of all the tides. 

Her throne is a street in the city, by the senseless name of 
Wall, 

Her prey is human muscle, with the products of honest toil. 
She works in her dark recesses, weaving an iron thrall, 

To steal the fruits of labor, and rob the gifts of the soil. 

Her web is a net of iron that covers the plundered land, 

Entangling the plow and harrow, enthralling the ax and 
loom. 
And the well-earned profits of labor, that slip through the 
workman's hand 
Are stored at last in the spider's den of gloom. 



68 FOREST RUNES. 

She sends her numerous offspring, with plausible lies to tell, 
Far out on the Nation's vineyards, while fields are of vivid 
green. 

Never were men of Jewry more cunning to buy or sell, — 
And the corn and oil come back to the Spider Queen. 

O men of the ocean prairie, with your sea-like fields pf corn, 
How much are you the richer, for the weary years you have 
seen ? 
Some part has gone to the huckster, who looks on your work 
with scorn, 
But the better part to the cells of the Spider Queen. 

Have you sometime thought, O toiler, when the sun was high 
and hot, 
That a nation had gone too fast, that a people might die of 
greed ? 
That making the land a refuge had wrought a national blot ? 
That honor and strength were more than numbers or speed ? 

The iron web is spreading — it comes to your very door, 

It saps the sinews of labor and draws your grain from the 
sheaves. 

It enters never a county but it sends a mortgage before, 
With an unseen tax that reaches from sill to eaves. 



FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 

WOULD that the yellow dirt, the glittering yellow dirt, 
For which men peril their lives and brave the hinges 
of hell, 
Were sunk in the devil's pit where neither profit or hurt 
Could come of the heavy dross they love so well. 

I am sick of the garrulous cry, the chattering, parrot cry 
Of bonds, money, and stock, gold, bonds and exchange, 

Meeting the ocean's roar, beaten back by the sky, 
It creaks and rattles throughout a continent's range. 

Honor is but a myth, integrity goes for naught. 

Wisdom is knowing how a man may gather the fruit 
While his neighbor shakes the tree : the noblest use for thought, 

To know when talking is gain and when to be mute. 

Doctors from colleges prate, clergymen talk against time, 
Big with oracular words, cunning with Hebraic lore, 

Believing labor a curse, the penalty placed on crime, 
As the grand old Hierarchs held in the days of yore. 



7<D FOREST RUNES. 

Better the hodden gray that is weft by a virtuous hand ; 

Better the calm, still man who lives by the plow and spade ; 
Better the Sabine farm with its seven acres of land, 

Than streets that are built by the dirty channels of trade. 

Wherein is a nation's wealth ? In what is a nation great ? 

Does a world-wide history prove that gold is the highest good ? 
Could riches, and pomp, and show save Rome from her well 
earned fate ? 

Are the old time failures of nations understood ? 

Did ever a people fail who only strove for the right, 

Who taught the nation's youth to be virtuous, brave and wise ? 

Did ever a nation's sun sink down to a moral night, 
Till a nation's counsels were filled with the devil's lies ? 

vOnce, when my soul was weary of wading in tangled thought, 
I slept by an attic window that looked to the bleak northeast. 

And a dream came over my spirit, so clearly, vividly wrought, 
That it warned like the mystic hand at the Tyrant's feast. 

THE DREAM. 

A week of scorching fever, when the hours 
Seemed stretched to days of torture, and the days 
Spun slowly out to months of groping pain. 
A sick man's oft told horrors : moping shapes 
That crawled and glared about with fishy eyes ; 
Mouthing and threatening heads, that grew or shrank 



FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 71 

From out the dusky corners of the room ; 
Chattering tiresome forms of bird or ape 
That perched themselves familiarly upon 
The hideous posts which sentineled the bed, 
Each post a mocking face. And one came there 
More dreadful than the rest; — a sleepless fiend; 
Whose office was to crouch at the bed's foot, 
And see to't, that no wink of sleep should cross 
The burning eyelids or the hot, tired brain, 
By night or day. In vain they freely gave 
The opiates that crazed but could not lull. 
For, even as there came a drowsy sense 
Of lessening pain, and the tired brow began 
To reel and stagger toward forgetfulness, 
Would rise that loathsome form with reptile eyes, 
Mumming and mouthing at my white, scared face, 
Till sleep was changed to deathless vigilance. 

And so at last I came to understand 

That 'twas my fate to die ; and that or rest, 

Or sleep, for me on earth was none. Ah God, 

I do believe that he who has not felt 

The rasping fire of fever in his veins, 

When the hot blood becomes as molten lead, 

And every nerve a lightning heated wire 

To telegraph the pain in every part 

Knows not what torture means. 



72 FOREST RUNES. 

There is a bound 
Beyond whose limit pain is merged in death, 
Most mercifully; — And, 'twill chance at times 
That he who has his hand upon the latch 
Which opens his own tomb, shall find himself 
Gifted with such a wondrous speed of thought, 
Such apprehension, and electric power 
Of intuition, as the man in health 
May never know or feel. And thus it was, 
That at the last I lay, helpless and mute, 
Drawing with feeble care the failing breath, 
That flickered doubtfully. But with a mind 
So clear, so active, quick to comprehend, 
So strong in grasp and sudden to conceive, 
That a whole life seemed mirrored in a thought. 
Naught in the room escaped me as I lay, 
Free from all pain, and conscious that my life 
Hung by the merest thread. The snuffy nurse, 
Cat-footed, restless, moving to and fro, 
As if impatient for the closing scene. 
The sickening forces, standing in array 
Of phial, pill and powder, with the dire 
Medicinal chieftain — potent calomel. 
The three wise men, for consultation met, 
And holding conversation half aside, 
Wisely debating on this drug or that ; 
Arguing if such and such might be 



FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 73 

Allowed in dire extremity, and if 

It could be proven from the books that Mott, 

Or Abernethy had been known to give 

Some certain tonic to a man, reduced 

By fever to death's door. And one who seemed 

The leader of the trio, rose and stood, 

With wooden face and spectacles on nose, 

Beside the bed, and raised the thin white hand, 

Placing a practised finger on the wrist, 

Timing the scarce-felt pulses for, perchance, 

Some two short minutes. Then he turned away, 

With something of the reverence and awe 

That men will feel while standing by the dead, 

And said, "the man is gone." 

Ev'n as he spoke, 
I smiled to think that one so learned and wise 
Should err so simply in the question that 
Affects our mortal breath How could I die, 
Yet lose no consciousness ? Where was the pang, 
The mortal throe, the stoppage of the heart 
And panting lungs ? The fearful struggle which 
Should wait on dissolution ? None of these. 
And yet the man was right. The dying smile 
Froze on the thin wan face ; the labored breath 
Grew free, the weary senses fresh and strong. 
The panting heart and brain awoke to life. 



74 FOREST RUNES. 

Buoyant and vigorous as when I climbed 
Thy pine clad hills, O Mendon, in the flush 
Of youth and health and hope, a joyous lad. 
And this was death ! This waking into life 
With freshened strength and new born energy 
Of soul ; this casting off the earthly clog 
That pains, and tires, and binds us to the earth. 
Already the freed soul had turned and gazed 
Half pityingly, half loathingly upon 
Its wasted prison house of earthly clay, 
Almost amused to see the snuffy nurse 
Close ostentatiously the glazing eyes, 
While weeping friends gathered about the bed, 
Pitying the thin cold form that had become 
But as the merest clod. 

And I became 
Conscious of other forms within the room : 
Old friends ; who had been freed long before 
By this same dreaded death. Two radiant forms 
Were these, that I had known in early youth, 
When poverty and sickness pressed and clung 
About them, till they rested in the earth, 
Gladly, as doth a wearied infant seek 
Its mother's breast. The one, an aged man, 
A grandsire ; who on earth had drank the dregs 
And lees of poverty ; but kept his faith 



FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 75 

And stern integrity for eighty years, 

Then sank into a nameless grave unknown, 

But with God's noblest stamp upon his brow, — 

An honest man. And, as he yielded not 

To dire temptation in his earthly needs, 

So had he double honor in the land 

Of disembodied souls. 

And there was one 
Whom I had known in childhood, and who might 
Have blessed my later life, but that she passed 
Beneath the bitter waters in her bloom 
Of maiden loveliness, and was forgot 
By all save him who loved her, and who kept 
Her memory as a sacred thing apart. 
These two, the maiden in her locks of gold 
And aged grandsire, were as when on earth, 
Inseparable ; and 'twas theirs to see 
That the freed soul, unused to roam in space, 
Had proper guidance to the outer realms 
Of the earth's influence, and be shown the way 
Among the stars. 

I would have lingered where 
Old sympathies and recollections clung, 
Sorrowing still awhile with those who mourned, 
Of the earth, earthy. But the radiant guides, 



j6 FOREST RUNES. 

With sweet low voices, such as well might haunt 
A poet lover in his dreams, said " No : 
Earth and earth's atmosphere are meet for man. 
The soul, freed from its clay, may not abide 
The rank, foul air, the sordid sins that grieve, 
And bind, and slay. The earth and all therein 
Is giv'n to man. We have no power to lift 
A feather's w T eight from off his world of woe ; 
Nor may we dwell for more than a brief space 
Within his realm, where the foul air corrupts 
With sickness, sin and death. Come thou with us. 

And we arose and passed away from earth 
By the mere act of will, and with a speed 
That set at naught the dull imperfect modes 
Of earthly computation. Naught to us 
Was time, with its divisions and delays, 
Nor any mode of reckoning by hours, 
Or days, or years. Being beyond the earth, 
Alternate light and darkness were no more, 
Nor day, nor night, nor the earth's atmosphere, 
Nor any cloud nor shadow. And I came 
To know the golden mysteries that lie 
Among the stars, in circumambient space. 

There was a rapture in the new born life 
That human language has no power to tell, — 



FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 77 

A wealth of happiness and sweet content 

That earth-bound souls may never understand. 

The murky earth swung far away in space, 

Hugged in a misty atmosphere, wherein 

Were seething life, unceasing death, and all 

Unwholesome things : and bearing on her face 

The blotched and bloody record of her crimes, 

We saw her reel on her allotted round, 

Dimly and distantly, and only said, 

Who in this better life would be so mad 

As yield one year's existence in the skies 

To have the fee in simple of yon world, 

With all her land and gold, her petty strifes, 

Her crimes and sins, with suffering interwrought — 



I woke. The northeast wind beat at the pane, 
The village clock the hour of midnight tolled. 

I heard the patter of the winter rain, 

And felt the dullness of the damp and cold. 

Ah God, how mean appeared my dwelling place 
On earth ; how small and poor all earthly things. 

I felt the poverty and deep disgrace 

That pauper princes feel, or throneless kings. 



78 FOREST RUNES. 

I said, 'Twas but a dream : and strove to keep 

A living interest in the life affairs 
Of busy men, who work, and eat, and sleep 

Beneath a weary load of petty cares. 

In vain. All that had power to please before, 
Had lost the power of pleasing. I was one 

Fated to love his fellows nevermore, 

Nor join the headlong, greedy race they run. 

I saw the emmets on this ragged earth 

Each struggling for his grain of yellow sand ; 

I heard the hollow lie, and saw the dearth 
Of justice, truth, and honor in the land. 

How could I mingle in the selfish throng 
That grasped and struggled, bit, and stung, and lied. 

I, who had heard the morning stars in song, — 
What needs were mine that this had satisfied ? 

And so we fell apart — the world and I. 

" A half mad poet " — so their prattle ran. 
" One who cares not to thrive, or sell, or buy, 

And has small liking for his fellow man. 

" He had a fever once ; and in a dream, 
Went far beyond the limits of this earth ; 

At least he says so. And since then 'twould seem, 
Cares naught for money or for money's worth." 



FROM THE MISANTHROPE. 79 

And so I came at last, by slow degrees, 

To shun the meeting of a human face, 
To seek the beetling crag where gnarly trees, 

Root-anchored in the rock, have dwelling place. 

Losing desire for human speech, I found 

A runic language in the song of birds. 
I learned to understand each woodland sound, — 

The sybil trees and all their mystic words. 

I dwelt with nature in her solitudes, 

And learned to love her in her wildest dress. 

A mother to me in her milder moods, 

And in her savage moments scarcely less. 

I climbed the mountain when the early dew 

Glistened on balm-flowers where the wild bee hummed. 

For me the woodcook whirred ; the goshawk flew 
Low o'er the thicket where the partridge drummed. 

The round-topped pines sighed far beneath my feet, 

The mountain stream shone through the morning mist. 

I watched the valley where bright waters meet 
From icy springs the sun has never kissed. 

Cleaving the pool the gleaming fish-hawk shot, 

With aim unerring on his finny prey. 
The wild-cat stole from briar sheltered grot, 

The pert kingfisher chattered from his spray. 



80 FOREST RUNES. 

I loved the deep, dark forest, where no foot 
Of all-polluting man had left a trace. 

I loved the pine tree with its rock-bound root, 
And low, sweet whispers of a holier place. 

And thus, half hermit and half misanthrope, 
I dragged the listless years of a decade. 

Dreamily musing, without wish or hope, 

Watching the seasons blossom, fill and fade. 

Men called me Infidel — God save the mark — 
For that I went not in their fanes to hear 

A blind man rustling parchment in the dark, 
A creed-clock ticking on the drowsy ear. 



GLEANING AFTER THE FIRE. 

WE tread a weary and blackened plain, 
Missing the good that we most desire, 
Our way is soddened by mist and rain 

That follows the track of blasting fire. 
We falter and pause, as one who gropes 

For a way more pleasant and something higher, 
Passing the graves of our buried hopes, 
Like him who gleans on the track of fire. 

We strain each muscle, and sob and choke, 

To gain a march on the desolate scene ; 
For we see, through rifts of the blinding smoke 

Bright gleams of flowers and banks of green. 
We know the singing of birds is there, 

And murmur of brooks we may not hear. 
We know that the land is fresh and fair, 

And the way we travel is dead and sere. 

At times we trust we are gaining ground, 
But the murky line of the fire recedes. 

Our ears catch only the hollow sound 
Of baseless dogmas and jarring creeds. 



82 FOREST RUNES. 

When strength was failing we paused to ask 
Is there nothing better, and is this all? 

Is life-long labor a bootless task 

To end at last in a dead blank wall ? 

Is the struggle of self the highest aim? 

Is naught to be gained by noble deeds ? 
From the crackling stiibble the answer came 

In a babel of tongues and jarring creeds. 
We passed the bones of the martyred dead 

Who perished by rack, and cord, and flame ; 
And shrank from the lying priest who said 

That Christ and the Twelve would do the same. 

And ever the priest was at our side, 

And ever he threatened and lied and fawned. 
And ever proclaimed himself a guide 

Through the murky fire to the fields beyond, 
But our hearts are deadened to priestly ire, 

Our ears are deaf to the priestly call ; 
We glean in silence behind the fire, 

And look for rest at the dead, blank wall. 



LINES FOR THE TIMES. 

HO ! fellow workmen, one and all, 
In mill and mine, or lanes of traffic, 
Behold the Hand upon the wall ! 
The mystic writing, terse and graphic. 

The priceless heritage we hold 
Slips through our hands to foes and strangers, 

While Honor trades for place or gold, 
And Freedom kneels to money changers. 

The stern, true way the Fathers taught 

Has passed away with those who taught it. 
The honor they so dearly bought 

Rests in the grave, with those who bought it. 
We retrograde thro' each decade, 

The statesman sinks to politician. 
We mark with sordid lines of trade 

The caste of plebeian or patrician. 

We teach the nation's youth to wade 

In moral filth of sharp finessing ; 
That Godliness is thrifty trade, 

And sudden wealth the chiefest blessing. 



84 FOREST RUNES. 

The trickster and the shameless guile, 
With brazen frauds and lying faces, 

Disgrace the nation's forum ; while 
Corruption rules in highest places. 

Alas, there is no God but gold ; 

No good, save riches or position. 
Our chosen ones are bought and sold, 

Their names sink down to swift perdition. 
They laugh the pilgrim sires to scorn ; 

On every sea their ships are sailing. 
So that they win the oil and corn, 

What though the grand old cause be failing ? 

The gifts that time has held in store ; 

The wisdom governed by the sages ; 
The treasured wealth of ancient lore, 

We hold in trust for future ages. 
The gifts are laid before our eyes, 

The riches wait for us to use them. 
To take, if we be strong and wise, 

If weak and trifling, to refuse them. 

If we, whose sinews pay for all, 

Through weak defense, ill-timed and aimless, 
Allow our cause to go in thrall 

Shall coming ages hold us blameless ? 



LINES FOR THE TIMES. 85 

We have the lesson taught by Rome, 

The more our shame that we should need it. 

The application lies at home — 
The better for us if we heed it. 

What if the garnered wealth and lore 

Be dowered on souls that shun and flee them ? 
Or godlike gems and diadems 

Be held to eyes that will not see them ? 
We have the right : we have the might : 

The rhyme is meet for the occasion. 
Who seeks the light shall see the light — 

Who shuns it woos his own damnation. 



DRAWERS AND HEWERS. 

BY A HEWER. 

WE stand where our great -great-grandsires stood, 
Working in silence — ashamed to sing. 
The ax sinks deep in the frozen wood, 

The buckets go to the icy spring ; 
We work and listen in sullen mood, 

As over the valley the axes ring — 
Drawers of water — Hewers of wood. 

Drawers of w T ater, Hewers of wood : 

We know the story— 'tis very old. 
And something better 'tis understood, 

Than when we molded the calf of gold 
Which Moses and Aaron turned to the good 

Of God — knows who : we are always sold, 
We, Drawers of water and Hewers of wood. 

We hewed for the temple of Solomon, 

We drew for the rulers of all the east, 
We hewed for the mighty Babylon. 



DRAWERS AND HEWERS. 87 

For thousands of years we have never ceased 
To hew or draw when the fit was on 

For palace or church with king or priest — 
Then sat at the gate till the feast was done. 

The heavier work the lighter pay : 

Such is the rule the wide world o'er. 
For the idler, a constant holiday. 

" To him that hath shall be given more : 
From him that not ye shall take away 

The little he hath." Oh blessed lore ! 
Is there anything left for us to say ? 

They take the corn that they do not reap 

And leave us only the coarsest fare, 
With the straw, perchance, whereon to sleep ; 

'Tis theirs the Tyrian robes to wear. 
They make the laws that they do not keep, — 

Then offer to God a formal prayer, 
And strangle His image for stealing sheep. 

And all of the Good we hold to-day 

Has cost us ages of toil to wring 
From Hebrew letter, from usage gray, 

And the harpy clutches of priest and king. 
We work and wait for the better way 

The snail-paced ages are sure to bring, — 
But we grind the bayonets while we pray. 



88 FOREST RUNES. 

Drawers and hewers, we watch and wait, 
For the brighter dawning shall come at last. 

We shall find the key of the golden gate, 
And take a bond for the bitter past. 

And kings and prelates shall yield to fate 
When none of us pay, or pray, or fast, 

For the harlot wedding of Church and State. 

Drawers and Hewers ! be ours the blame, 
If the coming ages shall still rehearse 

The bloody drama with bootless aim, 

Or the coward cringing to place and purse. 

Lock hands for the right ! The priestly game 
Shall fail, when a wakened universe 

Dare call the wrong by its Saxon name. 



THE SMITHS. 

LET us say that the lives of our sires are lost ; 
That the siren, hope, will elude and fade ; 
That the ages are blackened and battle tossed, 

And we gain no step in a long decade. 
What then, shall the wrong and the crime exhaust 
Eternal justice ? And shall no shade 

Remain of the life that is crushed and crossed ? 

■ 

Let us say we have gained so much on time 

That we hold some good which their lives have bought 

That not in vain at the wrong and crime 

Have Freedom's battles been aimed and fought ; 

That even failure may be sublime 

In its fearful cost, in the lesson taught, 

And its deathless lay in the realms of rhyme. 

Alas for the Workers who cringe, or shun 
The work cut out for their hands to do ! 
Alas for the poets who praise and pun ! 



90 FOREST RUNES. 

Alas for the Triflers the wide world through, 
And the manly race that is seldom run, 

The wise contempt for the just and true, 
The much to do and the little done ! 

And oh, for an unbought pen to brand 
The sordid tricks of these latter days ; 

And a harp too nobly true and grand 
To hymn a patron's or prince's praise — 

One that shall sweep with an Odic hand 
The carpet bards with their tomtit lays, 

As the wild Missouri sweeps the sand. 



DISHEARTENED. 



IN cottage, palace, saloon or street, 
We meet with a friendly nod or smile ; 
And little we know the weary while 
Of the sick and withering hearts we meet. 

We carry a mask to hide a woe ; 

We drag a burden from place to place ; 

And no one sees, through a smiling face, 
That a soul sits wringing her hands below. 

We hide our burdens as best we may, 
We potter and palter to present things ; 
We kneel at the thrones of money kings, 

And pawn our manhood, and pass away 

To be forgotten. 'Tis just as well. 

We pool our lives with the struggling crowd. 

We listen to voices, blatant, loud, 
Of Rights and Wrongs, and Heaven or Hell, 



9* FOREST RUNES. 

And say to ourselves, no mortal knows 
The whence we came or whither we go, 
Or whether one creed be true or no, 

Or aught that governs our last repose. 

I sit and listen, and think, and w T ait : 
I rise at five in the wintry murk 
To ponder and delve at weary work, 

And look in vain for the golden gate. 

My failing eyes shall never behold 

But dead, white hills in the morning gray, 
And cold, dull gleams at the close of day, 

And gates beyond — that are not of gold. 



TO JOHN BULL— ON HIS CHRISTMAS. 

IT'S little I care for a holiday, 
And less for a lord or peer, 
But I have a simple word to say- 
In a workman's rough, untutored way, 
On the opening of the year. 

J know the poets will clink their rhymes, 

As they always have done before, 
And ring the changes of Christmas chimes, 
On beef, and pudding, and good old times, 

As they did in the days of yore. 

But thousands of paupers will shrink and pine, 

As they list to the Christmas song, 
And sneer at your charities thin and fine, 
Drawn and leveled by rule and line, 

As they hunger, and wait, and long. 

For your Christmas mirth is a make-believe 

That covers a cancerous sore. 
And you know that milli'ons must fast and grieve, 
That mothers and children must starve or thieve ; 

But you choose to gloze it o'er. 



94 FOREST RUNES. 

Then sing your carol and play your play, 

For why should you pity or feel ? 
If a starving wretch should call to-day, 
Bribe his misery out of your way — 

Give him for once a meal. 

Only for once — and the workhouse then : 

Tis the best the- fellow can do. 
He's but a thriftless pauper ; and when 
He has lost all caste with his fellow men 

Pray why should he bother you ? 

Respectable John, with your shaven face, 

Are you up to their priestly tricks ? 
You'd break your legs to speak with "his Grace"' 
Have you ever revolved a nation's case, 
Whose paupers are one in six ? 

A Bishop with seventy thousand pounds, 

Filched each year from the workman's pay. — 
Do you wonder, when on your treadmill rounds 
With the fools who shout for miters and crowns, 
If there isn't a better way ? 



OUR LITTLE PRINCE. 



L' 



{ i j ITTLE CHARLEY is a prince," 
So we said in joyous pride, 
As we loitered side by side, 
Where the roses bloomed and died, 

Half a dozen summers since. 



He was rustling through the leaves, 
Where the golden tassels swayed, 
Half in- pleasure, half afraid, 
Hiding in the furrowed shade, 

Where the August cricket grieves. 



Silken tassels on the corn, 

Silken curls about his head ; 

" Which is which ? " we laughing said ; 

While the sun a glory shed 
On the curls and tasseled corn. 



g6 forest runes. 

Saxon eyes and face and hair, 
Saxon blood in every vein, 
Cheeks like roses after rain ; 
Never shall we see again 

Childish loveliness so rare. 

When the apple and the quince 
All their summer fragrance shed, 
How we miss our darling dead ; 
How we miss the curly head 

Of our lovely little prince. 

Little Charley was a prince — 
But, somebody in the sky 
Had more need of him than I, 
So we laid him down to die 

Half a dozen summers since. 



IT DOES NOT PAY. 



Inscribed to the memory of " Uncle John Mayo," a Puritan freethinker, sans 
peur et sans reproche. If my lines were as good as the man, I could discount 
Milton. 



A BENT old man with silvery hair, 
A palsied hand and brow of care, 
Sat in the shade on a summer day. 
And he musingly said with thoughtful air, 
It does not pay. 

For years he had mixed in the world's turmoil 
Of busy strife, and with manly toil 
Had battled many a weary day. 
And ever the world was still his foil. 
It did not pay. 

Partners had swindled and friends betrayed, 
Those he had succored refused their aid 

When adverse storms rose over the way. 
He only said as he sat in the shade, 
It does not pay. 



98 FOREST RUNES. 

No bitterness lurked in the old man's heart, 
Bravely and well he had played his part 

In the game of life, and well might say, 
As he backward looked on the troubled chart, 
It does not pay. 

Restfully, peacefully sat he there ; 

The south wind lifted his thin white hair 

As it lightly blew in tender play. 
He only said with a patient air, 
It does not pay. 

Eighty summers their blossoms had shed, 
Eighty winters had whitened his head, 
He waited his summons day by day ; 
Life is a feverish dream, he said, 
It does not pay. 



THE HUNTER'S LAMENT. 



MY boy is dead, my pet, my own. 
The crescent moon, with silver light, 
Gleams on his lowly grave. To-night, 
I take the trail of life alone. 

Four years ago, I fondly said, 

Lo, unto me a son is born. 

And when the west wind waked the morn 
The mother of my boy was dead. 

I have no joy in heaven's light, 
I can not weep and will not pray. 
I wear the dreary night to day, 

I tire the weary day to night. 

"With dark surplice and oily voice 

Comes one who speaks to me of peace. 
" The boy has gone where sorrows cease, 

'Twere meet the father should rejoice." 



IOO FOREST RUNES. 

My soul in fierceness makes reply : 
My beautiful, my dark-eyed boy, 
Whose very being was a joy, 

What had he done that he should die ! 

Over the somber hill of pines 

The night-wind sweeps with chastened wail, 
Shaking against the moonbeams pale 

The tangled hair of untrained vines. 

The fox barks sharply from the hill 
As fades the light adown the west. 
Soothing his mate upon her nest, 

Plaintively mourns the whip-poor-will. 

Out from the shadows weird and grim 
Where fitful gleams of moonlight fall, 
I hear the owlet's hollow call 

Ring through the forest arches dim. 

The dun deer feed at early morn 

Where lilies nod by purling brooks : 
Still hangs the rifle on its hooks, 

Still am I restless and forlorn. 

My rifle rusts against the wall, 
My hound tugs idly at his chain, 



THE HUNTER'S LAMENT. 

I care not for the summer rain, 
Or if the golden apples fall. 

I know 'tis weakness thus to moan — 
That men should suffer and be strong, 
But oh, the journey seems so long ! 

And 'tis so sad to be alone ! 

Why should I o'er the mountain toil ? 
Where is the pleasure, what the need 
To draw with skill the deadly bead 

When none are left to share the spoil ? 

My home is desolate. Nor wife, 

Nor joyous child will greet me more. 
What wonder that I ponder o'er 

My grief, or weary of my life ? 



IDA MAY. 

IT is twenty years ago, Ida May. It is twenty years ago 
That we sat beneath the moon 
In the pleasant month of June, 
In the shadow of a hawthorn white as snow, Ida May. 

'Twas a pleasant, foolish time, Ida May. 'Twas a pleasant, fool- 
ish time, 

Watching thus the golden gleam 

Of the moonlight on the stream, 
While we listened to the pleasant village chime, Ida May. 

We are older now than then, Ida May. We are older now 
than then, 

And have wisdom, it may be. 
But the happy hearts, and free, 
Blithesome laughter we can never feel again, Ida May. 

Time will run us down at last, Ida May. Time will run us 
down at last. 

I've a slight rheumatic twinge, 
And your tresses have the tinge 
Of a color you'll be apt to find is fast, Ida May. Of a color 
you'll be apt to find is fast. 



IONE. 

} r I ^IS a word of rhythmic measure, is that dulcet name, lone, 
1 Borrowed from the maids of Athens, meaning aged, or 
alone. 
Can the meaning be prophetic, O my blue-eyed one, my own ? 



Do you wander by the waters when the sun is warm in May 
With young hopes as freshly springing as they did upon a day 
Some few years before this writing — six or seven, let us say ? 

Have you found the world grow colder, have you learned that 

hopes will fade, 
That the winters are more bitter, and more frail the summer 

shade ? 
And that nothing is so certain as the fellow with the spade ? 

For I knew you were ambitious half a dozen years ago ; 
That you longed for rank and riches. But I also chanced to 

know 
That a loving heart was pulsing in the quiet depths below. 

So I watched you like a lover as you jostled in the tide 
Of those selfish social wrestlers, with no helper at your side, 
And I thought that you might triumph, just by dint of pluck 
and pride. 



104 FOREST RUNES. 

But the strife has been a hard one — you are just a little pale — 
'Twould have been so grand to triumph ; it is no disgrace to fail, 
For the odds were high against you, and you were so weak and 
frail. 

Ah, the springs are wet and heavy, and the summers dull and 

tame. 
Black and windy are the autumns — every day shall bear its blame, 
But it is not in the seasons — 'tis that we are not the same. 

Sitting in the grand old forest, listening idly, all alone, 

To the gentle pattering raindrops and the pine-tree's monotone, 

Is it wonder that my musing turned upon thee, sweet lone ? 

Our two lives have naught in common, and our paths must 

still diverge ; 
Yours on quiet inland waters, mine upon the outer surge — 
Yours to trill a summer sonnet, mine to chant a winter dirge. 

When old age shall find us wanting all the joys we hoped to win, 
Striving idly in our weakness with the bitter thoughts within, 
Shall we think of sweet Maud Muller, and the things that 
might have been ? 



ALL THINGS COME ROUND. 



" All things come round to him who will but wait. ' ' — Tales of a Wayside Inn. 



• • \ LL things come round to him who will but wait." 
1~\. Ah poet ! were thy rhythmic words but true, 

We said, and closed the book. For our estate 
Was at its lowest ebb ; and heavy grew 

The bitter " income tax laid on by fate," 
Which is evaded by the lucky few, 

And is assessed in such a pleasant way, 

That, all the less you have, the more you pay. 



"All things come round." Much, much has come to us, 

That we had been well satisfied to miss. 
The tolling bell, slow creaking in its rust ; 

The trusted lips, that sold us with a kiss ; 
The coffins, that were lowered into dust ; 

The griefs we might not tell ; the serpent hiss 
Of slander ; loss of health or worldly gear, 
And hopes, that turned up blanks from year to year. 



Io6 FOREST RUNES. 

Tis sad to find how little that is worth 

For which we waited long. 'Tis sadder still 

To find the hearts we trusted most on earth — 
Not dead— but dull, indifferent, and chill. 

'Tis sad to see the roof above the hearth 
We loved in childhood, at a stranger's will 

Torn down for some new whim of innovation 

In gewgaw taste, or modern speculation. 

But sadder far than this, than these, than all, 
Is loss of youth — the Mayday of the soul. 

To see the years close round us like a pall, 
To feel our lives unrolling a blank scroll : 

The head becoming like a billiard ball, 

Eyes failing, teeth decaying, and the whole 

Anatomy gone into liquidation, 

To close a very pressing obligation. 



MY WOODLAND PRINCESS. 

WHAT if we met in an old log-road 
Where the leaf -mold clung to her small bare heels, 
And instead of woodland flowers, her load 
Was a string of trout and silver eels ? 

Her gown was ragged and limp with dew, 

But it rounded a pair of splendid hips. 
A rich red torrent was flashing through 

Her startled pulses to cheeks and lips. 

The wholesome bronze of her ruddy face 

Was like ripe fruit in a bower of green, 
And she walked the wold with the easy grace 

And firm, free step of a woodland queen. 

The dew had moistened the jetty hair 

That waved and clustered about her head. 

I caught a glimpse of the shoulders bare, 
The sparkling eyes and the lips of red. 

Only a glimpse of the tattered gown, 

As she disappeared in the leafy way. 
A glance of the shoulders plump and brown, 

And a face — that haunted me night and day. 



I0 8 FOREST RUNES. 

And I wandered on by the yeasty stream 
To try for the trout that would not rise, 

For I walked all day in a misty dream 

Of lips, and shoulders, and curls and eyes. 

And I thought of a damsel, city bred, 
Of narrow shoulders and doubtful spine, 

With false hair frizzed on the trifling head, 
And false life, beveled by rule and line. 

Unskilled, unheeding in wifely cares, 
Expensive, vapory, worthless : when 

The mother half hates the child she bears, 
Where shall we go for the nation's men ? 

I take the lot that the fates decree, 
And my fancies fail me, one by one, 

But often in dreams again I see 

The Woodland Princess of Cedar Run. 



REMEMBERED — L. K. 

LONG years ago, in early June, 
When brooks and birds were in high tune, 
I sat beneath an oak at noon, — 

A grand old oak of grateful shade ; 
And at my side a dark- eyed maid 
"Who listened, and was not afraid. 

Her eyes were moist with pearly tears ; 
She whispered that in later years 
"We would divide our hopes and fears. 

For years, long years, it was my dream, 

An idle ignis fatuus gleam 

Of moonlight on a frozen stream. 

****** 

I passed that way when years had fled, 
I could not find the streamlet's bed, 

The oak was withered, sere and dead. 

- 

Oft, as I brush my locks of gray, 
I muse upon that summer day ; 
The shady oak, and streamlet's play. 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 

Mrs. E. Vanatter committed suicide by drowning in the summer of 1856. 
She took her little boy along. 

DIMLY the light of a summer morn 
Shadowed the willow and white hawthorn. 
Far in the east pale streaks of gray 
Faintly tokened the coming day. 

In the morning dim, thro' the rank wet grass, 
A woman's form did wearily pass — 
Passed, with uncertain step and slow, 
To the banks of a stream that slept below. 

And ever with loving tones she wiled, 
As she held by the hand her only child, 
Who upward gazed with a strange surprise 
At the gleaming light of her sad dark eyes. 

" I was sleeping warm in my little bed, 
And why did you bring me here ? " he said. 

" The world is bitter, my darling child," 
She said, and her eye grew strangely wild, 
" Bitter and cold ; and we are lone. 
Wilt go with thy mother, my loved, my own ? " 



MOTHER AND CHILD. Ill 

Oh a strange, sad sight was that mother pale, 
Whispering gently a fairy tale, 
A sweet wild tale of a beautiful home 
Fathoms beneath the snowy foam. 

And the boy grew calm, and sank to rest 
In child-like faith, on his mother's breast. 
Sank to rest on the grassy shore 
That his little feet shall press no more. 

The sun has silvered a thousand rills, 

Warmed the valleys and brightened the hills, 

Casting aslant a golden beam 

Where sleeps the mother beneath the stream. 

Calmly sleeps in a dreamless rest, 

With the boy she loved on her gentle breast. 

The white hawthorn has scattered its flowers 

To the summer winds in fragrant showers. 

The willow trees on the streamlet's verge 

Are softly singing a sweet, low dirge ; 

A requiem sad, a mourning lay, 

With whispering voice that seems to say, 

Passing away — passing away. 



BESSIE IRELAN. 

BESSIE IRELAN was a queen, 
Regal brow and dusky hair, 
Deep blue eyes and queenly air, 
Good and kind as she was fair — 
Sweeter maid was never seen. 

Bessie Irelan was a queen 

All who knew her freely owned ; 
But the crown was only loaned. 
Bessie Irelan was dethroned 

On the turn of seventeen. 

I am older now than when 

To her crown I bent the knee, 
And it drove me wild to see 
How she queened it over me, 

How she ruled the hearts of men. 

It is twenty years to-day 

Since she gave her crown in trust 
To a sordid soul of rust, 
One who trailed it in the dust 

Ere the year had passed away. 



BESSIE IRELAN. II3 

'Twere a better fate by half 

That the village bell had tolled 

For the maiden pale and cold, 

Than to be with links of gold 
Chained to such a golden calf. 

Soul of poesy and fire, 

Dreeing weary years of pain, 
Galled and wounded by the chain — 
Have they dragged her all in vain 

Through their sordid lanes of mire ? 

Yesterday, the village bell 

By the ancient sexton rung, 

Counted with its iron tongue 

Thirty-seven, as it swung, 
Slowly creaking to her knell. 

And to-day they take her where 

She will never see the sun. 

Now her earthly race is done 

Has a better life begun ? 
Shall I ever know her there ? 



A LITTLE GRAVE. 

I SIT by the window with Maud, my wife, 
Watching the drift of the wind and rain ; 
The tree-tops writhing like things of life, 
And the sweep of the storm across the plain. 

We strive to be merry. — O dull deceit 
That cannot deceive ; for well we know 

That the mutual smile is a mutual cheat — 
Our hearts are out in the soddened snow. 

Out, where the arms of the oaks are tossed, 
And a white stone faces the bitter west. 

Where two little childish hands are crossed 
In the cold wet clay, on a baby breast. 

And it seems such a heartless thing to sit 
In a cozy room, so pleasant and warm, 

Watching the wraith-like shadows flit 

O'er the little grave, in the driving storm. 



A LITTLE GRAVE. 115 

We turn from the window, and strive to smile, 
But the false light fades from the brimming eyes. 

We strive for a subject that may beguile, 
And our two white faces are two white lies. 

Late, late in the night, when the silken curls 
Are veiling an arm where the bright head rests, 

I can feel the warmth of the dewy pearls, 
And the weary rise of the snowy breast. 

And once in a way a man may weep 

At the mother sorrow that slumbers there, 

As she murmurs a something in her sleep, 
That is half a cradle-song, half a prayer. 



A SUMMER NIGHT. 

WEST sloping hills smile to the setting sun 
In richest summer hues of vivid green. 
The mower whistles, as, his labor done, 

He homeward takes his way. In distance seen, 
Like wreaths of smoke along the meadow's edge, 
The white fog marks the river's banks of sedge. 

The distant cattle, lowing loud and clear, 
Are wending homeward, leisurely and slow. 

The farm dog's bark comes softened to the ear 
By mellowing distance. On the stream below, 

With ever ready wing and watchful eye 

A flock of wild-fowl gracefully glide by. 

The hermit thrush sings from the topmost spray 
Of fir or hemlock ; from the thicket dense 

The gray owl hoarsely calls. A plaintive lay 
Is rising from the ivy clustered fence 

That skirts the base of yonder wooded hill — 

An eager, flute-like call of whip-poor-will. 



A SUMMER NIGHT. 117 

The plover's cry cuts sharply on the air, 
The clumsy beetle blunders on his rounds ; 

The wary fox creeps softly from his lair 
And barks defiance to the distant hounds, 

Who answer back with fierce, defiant bay, 

And tug their chains, and pant to be away. 

Now swims the moon along the milky way 

In burnished splendor ; and the hours of night 

March forth like conquerors who hold mild sway, 
Dispensing golden dreams, and rest, and light, 

Alike on cottage, hut, or princely hall, 

A peaceful benison, dowered alike on all. 



WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER. 



The ship Gloucester sank in sight of land near Boston harbor, some ninety 
years ago. A young merchant, whose name I have forgotten, had a wife and 
brother on board, and was also part owner of the ship and cargo. He saw the 
Gloucester from South Boston heights, when she foundered, in a furious gale. 
From that time until his death he was a mild maniac, watching the sea and wan- 
dering up and down the beach, especially in rough weather. He lived to the 
age of eighty. 

THE shrieking winds are up and away, 
And a bent old man with locks of gray 
Watches the clouds through the blinding spray. 



For fifty years, when the winds were high, 
He has walked the sands and watched the sky, 
With maundering step and restless eye. 

Crooning and muttering o'er and o'er 
The tale of a ship that sailed from shore, 
And returned to port — ah, nevermore ! 

A <ioble ship. And centered there 
Was all that he held most dear and fair. 
She sank ; and his life was a blank despair. 



WRECK OF THE GLOUCESTER. 119 

It is fifty years since he heard the toll 
Of the good ship's bell, and over his soul 
The waters swept with a heavy roll. 

Wandering vacantly to and fro, 

Watching the ships that come and go, 

And the white crowned waters ebb and flow. 



Out in the offing, side by side, 
Bride and brother, brother and bride, 
They rise and sink with the sobbing tide. 



HASTE. 

THE rapid strides of this latter age 
Bring all our tardy plans to grief, 
And fortune has learned to turn the leaf 
Before we have time to read the page. 



A CHRISTMAS ENTRY. 

BY AN IRON MERCHANT. 

SHALL I sing a song on the bleak new year, 
When the snow lies deep on valley and plain- 
Shall I chirp of winter and Christmas cheer, 
Or pipe to the season a gay refrain ? 

I will sing of a maiden I knew of old, 

Ere my heart was chilled or my head was gray — 
Of a Saxon maiden, with locks of gold, 

Who walked with me in the vanished way. 

For the skies are gloomier ever since 

They took her off on the loathsome bier ; 

And a deadness broods on the autumn tints, 
And a vapid taste on the Christmas cheer. 

So, Nancy Shepard, I sing of you, 

In the Dorian strain of early days. 
I will praise your eyes of the deepest blue, 

Your winsome looks and your winning ways. 



A CHRISTMAS ENTRY. 

For you were fairest where all were fair ; 

Where all were graceful you were the Grace. 
You walked the world with a queenly air, 

And the light of heaven was in your face. 

Alas for the life you were meant to bless ; 

Alas for the riches that rot and rust ; 
Alas, that beauty and loveliness 

Should fade so soon to the common dust. 

And I, who have turned my fiftieth year, 
Watching the coming and going ships, 

Am entering items of beauty here, 
To eyes of azure and coral lips ! 

A hard-faced merchant, in love with gain, 
Wise in the ways of the Rascal Man — 

Shall I change my white winged birds o' the main 
For a lovelorn ditty, and pipes, and Pan ? 

But I file away, as a thing apart, 
The cherished memory of that maid 

In the warmest niche of a world-worn heart 
The rest may go — to the winds of trade. 

For the world is cunning, and hard, and cold ; 

And the life we live has so little in't ; — 
Like a walking body without a soul — 

Or a julep — without the ice and mint. 



TWO LIVES. 

THEY sat with their small white feet in the brook- 
Two village maidens of beauty rare. 
Kate, with her bright espiegle look, 

And blue-eyed Blanche in her golden hair. 

They bathed the ankles so trim and neat, 

They laved the breasts and the round white arms, 

They plashed the water with dainty feet, 

And laughed and glowed in their maiden charms. 

The air was fragrant with new-mown hay, 
The wild bee wrought with drowsy hum , 

And they chatted the dreamy hours away 
With girlish plans for the years to come. 

And she with the eyes of sparkling jet, 

Would be content as a farmer's wife ; 
To shun the follies that wear and fret 

In the simple pleasures of country life. 

Then Blanche, with her laughing eyes of blue, 

Shook down a river of sunny hair 
That rippled and flowed in golden hue, 

O'er neck, and bosom, and shoulders bare. 



TWO LIVES. 12 3 

" And I," she said, " would live in the town, 

With lackeys to go or come at call. 
And I should be proud, if men would crown 

Me queen of beauty, at rout or ball." 

Oh, Blanche, in your veil of golden hair, 

No sybil you, of the future life. 
On you, in your beauty ripe and rare, 

Shall fall the lot of the farmer's wife. 

And your soul will tire of the petty gains, 
And the work-day trifles that wear the time, 

And matron worry and mother-pains 

Shall waste your beauty before its prime. 

And red-lipped Kate, with her midnight curls, 

Shall win the riches for which you pine, 
Her brow shall glisten with gems and pearls, 

Her board shall sparkle with plate and wine. 

But she will long for the new-mown hay, 

And the gusty shadows on upland leas ; 
And sicken and tire of her splendid way, 

And sigh for the brooks, and birds, and bees. 

And you shall chafe at your narrow lot,' 

And weary and tire of your household cares. 

And each shall covet what each has not, 
And pine for the burden the other bears. 



124 FOREST RUNES. 

Oh, city dame, and oh, farmer's wife, 

Too much forgetting — too long estranged, 

Ye were two jewels of love and life — 

If but the setting were turned or changed. 



ELAINE. 

ELAINE, my bright-eyed, my sunlight, my passion, 
Lay your proud head on my bosom to-night. 
Old loves and old love-songs have gone out of fashion, 
And Mammon is king, by divinest of right. 

Press the full breasts that are lovingly beating, 
Close to the heart that is throbbing for you. 

Shut out the moonlight. The night is too fleeting. — 
Oh, lips that are moist with the soul's honey-dew, 

Draw hard on the spirit through lips that, responding, 
As powder to fire, flash their blood-life to you. 

Press me, oh press me, strong-handed, white-throated, 
To your rosy-tipped bosom, till daylight peeps through 

The casement, o'er landscapes starlighted, moss-moated, 
And the tame upland meadows thick jeweled with dew. 



ANNA FAY— ON SKATES. 



TO RAB. 



SHE glanced and gleamed from place to place 
On curving lines of easy grace, 
And such a form — and such a face ! 



Cutting her name with scroll and curve, 
We watched her sway and sweep and swerve- 
Elastic health in every nerve. 

Each cheek was just a damask rose, 
Her mouth, a bud that did unclose 
O'er beads of pearl in two white rows. 

Her little feet glanced here and there ; 
She tossed her bonnet — anywhere, 
And gave the winds her wealth of hair. 

The night breeze kissed her chestnut curls 
As round she flew in dizzy whorls — 
The very queen of village girls. 



126 FOREST RUNES. 

Fair maids are not so scarce ; and they 
Were out that night upon the Bay, 
But none so fair as Anna Fay. 

* * * * * * 

And Billy Jones, fastidious Bill, 
Who owned the mansion on the hill, 
And did — whatever pleased his will ; 

Cute Bill, who never got done brown ; 
Who dealt in farms the country round, 
And stores, and corner lots in town ; 

Shrewd Bill — our village millionaire, 
Who drove his crabs with such an air — 
What business had he skating there ? 

Unlucky Bill ! woe worth the day 
That pretty witch, sweet Anna Fay, 
Skated your foolish heart away. 

****** 

Eight years have passed. The mansion still 
Looks from the summit of the hill, 
Where, like a lord, reigned bachelor Bill. 

Ah, Mrs. Jones, I needs must say, 
You wield a most despotic sway ; 
I liked you more as Anna Fay. 



anna fay — on skates. 127 

Moral. 
Now, bachelors who read this sonnet, 

Be well admonished while you may, 

Don't be enticed nor led astray 
By any she that wears a bonnet. 

There's many a lovely nymph to-day 

As sharp — on skates — as Anna Fay. 
Keep off the ice when they are on it ! 



PARAPHRASE ON " BRAHMA." 



THE slayer but obeys the Fates, 
A better change awaits the slain, 
All things my essence permeates, 

As the parched earth the summer rain. 

The same, a thousand years ago, to-day; 

To-day, a thousand ages hence. 
Can time, or fame, or shame outgrow 

Omniscience or omnipotence ? 

I fly with him who flies from me ; 

He faints, in me he finds his rest ; 
He doubts ; from doubt I set him free. 

All doubt is buried in my breast. 

All things are mine, and mine all needs, 
And mine the fogs of mysticism — 

The chrismal vail of heathen creeds, 
The senseless myths of Brahminism. 



THE RETIRED PREACHER. 

A MAN he was of most benignant mien, 
Of portly size and countenance serene, 
Who, though his flowing beard and locks were hoar. 
Used no disgusting mixtures to restore. 
Of genteel habits, cleanly to a fault, 
Using no liquors, spirituous or malt. 
Ruddy of cheek, and straight in back and limb, 
No gout or rheumatism affected him. 
Temperate in habit, frugal in his ways, 
His life serenely ran to length of days. 
Well versed in all the topics of the time, 
A judge of prose and lover of good rhyme ; 
A writer too he was, of middling verse, 
Of which full much he wrote, and often did rehearse. 

Called early to the pulpit, nothing loth, 
He pounded and expounded on the cloth 
For three decades, in such a style and tone 
He pleased the many while he angered none. 
His little parish liked the young divine, 
Whose voice was pleasant, and appearance fine. 
He preached straightforwardly, in language plain, 
And in good taste ; nor did he preach in vain. 



130 FOREST RUNES. 

To him came offerings from the nests of hens, 
Fat turkeys and young capons from their pens. 
For him the holidays brought scented notes, 
With gifts of slippers, dressing gowns and coats. 
And, being well housed, with much to eat and wear, 
He found his master's cross an easy load to bear. 

Always a fav'rite with the sisterhood, 

Who found him so benevolent and good, 

He knew the value of the softest place, 

And dropped into it with a native grace. 

Preaching forgiveness and the law of love, 

He laid, no doubt, much treasure up above ; 

But, feeling earthly needs, 'tis also clear 

He managed to lay by some treasure here, 

Keeping himself quite harmless to the eyes 

Of worldly people, he was also wise. 

Pleasing, for he had studied how to please, 

He passed the quiet days in virtuous ease, 

While, spinning not, and liking ill to toil, 

He still absorbed his share of carnal corn and oil. 

Thus, walking pleasantly life's fitful stage, 
Good Doctor Mickle reached a green old age. 
At sixty years, sedate, reserved and wise, 
Full many sought the Doctor's sage advice, 
Accorded freely unto all who sought, 
But most benignly to the ones who brought 



THE RETIRED PREACHER. 131 

Fresh girlish faces, with bright eyes and curls — 

For he excelled in counseling young girls ; 

Giving much time to maiden proteges 

In moonlight walks, beneath the village trees ; 

Leading the ductile mind in paths of peace, 

Such as were taught in academic Greece, 

Taking, no doubt, a mild platonic pride 

In walking wisdom's paths, — with Venus at his side. 

Envious detraction, rife on every hand, 

Admitted that the Doctor's ways were bland, 

His presence fine, with excellent physique. 

Also, he knew some Latin and less Greek, 

With just how far a Latin phrase should go, 

And when 'twere wise to know — or not to know. 

But his fine head, white with the frost of years, 

Was all too heavy just behind the ears. 

His piety, mixed with shrewd worldly sense, 

The envious claimed as cunning and pretence. 

And business men, of sharp, successful lives, 

Eschewed his proteges when seeking wives, 

Thinking the Doctor's pleasant ways no less 

Than private paths, well trodden to his own success. 

And I ? Well, I have naught to say, 

Being outside of church dominion. 
I let things wag the natural way 

And leave each man his own opinion. 



WAITING FOR HER PRINCE. 



OUT where the scarlet maples grow, 
Beneath a spreading linden's shade, 
Waiting for Prince Scheherazade, 
Sits pretty Katie Lamoreau. 

Up in the cottage just above, 
With hard unceasing plash and rub, 
Her mother works the steaming tub, 

Scrubbing and scolding, all for love. 

Hard worked, hard-featured, prone to frown, 
•With knitted brow and keen black eyes — 
The daughter is a sweet surprise, 
The world-worn mother softened down. 

And argument may not convince 

The red armed shrew that pretty Kate 
Can do aught better than to wait 

Until blind fortune sends her Prince. 



WAITING FOR HER PRINCE. 133 

And she will wait each summer day, 

A senseless novel in her hand, 

Dreaming a dream of fairy land, 
Until her Prince shall ride that way. 

Her Prince will come ; and she will thank 

Her fortune, and be only glad, 

Tho' he is but an Irish lad, 
Who wields the hod or walks the plank. 

" So, sift the classic idyls out 

From words and glosses overlaid, 
Your Damon is a Helot lout — 

Your Daphne is a chambermaid." 



MAY. 

THE redwinged merle, from bending spray- 
On graceful pinions poising, 
Pours out a liquid roundelay 

In jubilant rejoicing. 
The cock-grouse drums on sounding log, 

The fox forsakes the cover, 
The woodcock pipes from fen and bog, 
From upland leas the plover. 

The speckled trout dart up the stream 

Beneath the rustic bridges, 
While flocks of pigeons glance and gleam 

O'er beech and maple ridges. 
The golden robin trills his note 

Among the netted shadows, 
The bobolink with mellow throat 

Makes musical the meadows. 

The peeping frogs, with silver bells 

In rhythmical ovation, 
Ring out a chime of treble swells 

In joyous gratulation. 



MAY. 135 

The low of kine is mingling with 

The song of lark and sparrow, 
While fallow fields are growing blithe 

Beneath the plow and harrow. 

The moon all night, serene and white, 

On lake and stream is glowing, 
While rippling fountains seek her light 

Through woodland valleys flowing. 
And all night long a low sweet song 

Sweeps o'er the misty hollow, 
From marsh and fen, from hill and glen, 

From brook, and field, and fallow. 

It is the time of pleasant things, 

When Love makes up his issues, 
When hearts well up like hidden springs 

From rusted cells and tissues. 
A time to hear, at break of day, 

A silver-chorused matin, 
A liquid fretwork in crochet, 

On atmospheric satin. 

A time to feast the soul, the eyes ; 

To watch each bird that passes ; 
And half surmise that birds are wise, 

And men are only asses. 



I3 r> FOREST RUNES. 

And then, to turn and raise the load, 
With weary shoulders bending, 

And take the old, well-beaten road 
That leads — unto the ending. 



ISABEL NYE. 

WHEN autumn flowers were rich in bloom 
And ripe fruit reddened against the sky, 
Through the latticed door of a maiden's room, 
The Devil came purring to Isabel Nye. 

Isabel Nye with her sun- bright face, 

Her midnight hair, and her sloe-black eye. 

Goodness, and beauty, and maiden grace, 
Were lavished and laid on Isabel Nye. 

And she had suitors who sued, for gold ; 

And lovers, who wooed for love — or lust. 
But he who won her was hard and cold, 

And he trailed her soul in the very dust. 



ISABEL NYE. 137 

What though my hair was a trifle gray ? 

I loved her better and more than all. 
I worshiped her on her queenly way, 

And her fall, to me, was an angel's fall. 

Man glides to the ground by slow degrees, 

Halting and hitching at wrong or right. 
But woman glissades, with fearful ease, 

Like a shooting star on a wintry night. 

Ah, Isabel Nye, the winds go by ; 

The beard o' the thistle sail's out to sea, 
And the loves of old that were like tried gold 

Have gone with the thistle-down — far a-lee. 



DEACON JOHN. 

Every rhythmical scribbler is entitled to one shot at the " Maud Muller " 
mark. I inscribe, to the average school miss, Deacon John. 

DEACON John Davis rode his mare 
Across the meadows so fresh and fair ; 
Rode to a cottage, old and brown, 
That stood by a brook in Lindley town, 
And asked, with a shame-faced, modest mien, 
For an interview with Isabel Green. 
And Isabel, who had seen him come, 
Said, " Tell the Deacon I ain't to hum." 

For Isabel wore a Grecian bend, 
And loved a young man with no end 
Of soap-locks, clustering round a face 
On which much hair left little space 
For kissing ; while a huge mustache 
Made it close work to rastle his hash. 

" I think," said red-lipped Isabel Green, 

" That Deacon John is real mean 

To ask a girl like me t'engage 

To many a man that's twice her age." 



DEACON JOHN. 139 

The Deacon said, " She may be right. 

I walked accordin' tu the light 

I had. I'm only thirty-eight, 

And well to du, an' strong, an' straight. 

I would hev let her keep the puss — 

She may go furder, an' fare wuss." 

And the Deacon straddled his mare agin, 
Only saying, " It might hev bin." 

And Isabel wedded Charley Cross, 
Who ran exceedingly strong on hoss, 
And made his living by little games, 
From which arise unpleasant names. 
He played at poker and sledge and whist, 
With all the games on the gambler's list. 
He fought the tiger with might and main, 
And sometimes got most bitterly slain. 

But then he had such eyes and hair, 
And walked the streets with a princely air ; 
Handled his cane in a foreign style, 
And had such a bandit look and smile. 

Oh sweet to a silly maiden's view 
Is a waxed mustache of sable hue. 
And dearly the maiden loves to doat 
On a handsome man in a bob-tailed coat. 



14° FOREST RUNES. 

But sad and sickening is the life 
That waits on every gambler's wife. 
And any damsel will rue the day 
She marries the man who lives by play. 

Isabel followed her foolish choice, 
And learned to tremble at his voice. 
And her soul grew sick from time to time 
At the dirty deed, half trick, half crime, 

As she thought of quiet Lindley town, 
With its little cottage, snug and brown, 
And the peaceful, healthy, happy life 
She might have led as the Deacon's wife. 

One night, at " Natchez under the Hill," 
It came to an end, as such things will. 
There was a scrimmage — which I believe 
Arose from aces, in Charley's sleeve. 

No need to tell of the savage fight 

That wakened the town at dead of night ; 

Of pistol shots, and bowies drawn, 

And a shallow grave at early dawn ; 

But Isabel, widowed and forlorn 

Went back to the spot where she was born. 



HANNAH LEE. 141 

And often, with thoughts too deep for words, 
She watches the Deacon's flocks and herds, 
Or weeps in silence to see him ride 
With a blooming Deaconess at his side, 
Then turns to her wash-tub once agin — 
Only saying, " It might hev bin." 



HANNAH LEE. 

A Minnesota girl murdered and scalped, August, 1862. 

THE prairie wind is sadly wailing, 
The ripe leaves rustle from vine and tree. 
The thistle-down is softly sailing 
Above the grave of Hannah Lee. 

Oh, never maiden in her dwelling 

Met fouler fate by fiendish hand, 
When from his lair with beast-like yelling 

The savage burst with knife and brand. 

Oh, never hair more brightly golden 
Adorned a head more sweetly fair. 

Nor ever, in the ages olden, 

Walked earthly maid with queenlier air. 



142 FOREST RUNES. 

The brutal stake the breast impaling, 
The golden hair torn from the head — 

Well may the wind, with ceaseless wailing, 
Forever mourn the queenly dead. 

Far up the Athabasca's sources 

They hold the savage dance by night. 

And silken hair from maiden's corses 
Gleams from the spear in fiendish rite. 

The midnight fire is fiercely glowing 
On rolling stream, and rock and tree. 

And from a chieftain's spear is flowing 
The golden hair of Hannah Lee. 



I 



AT ANCHOR. 



AM going a journey, brother. Or would it be better to say, 
I am just ending up a long voyage, and dropping my 
kedge in the bay. 
•Coming home ; and in debt to the purser, with never a dollar 
to pay. 

Six decades. 'Twas a wearisome voyage, made over a mystical 

sea, 
In a poorly rigged, plebeian lugger, that always was drifting 

a-lee ; 
And where are the lofty square-riggers that started the voyage 

with me ? 

They passed me far up to the windward, with stunsails aloft 

and alow, 
Some heading for tropical islands, some bound for the islands 

of snow, 
And where are the weatherly clippers the merchants delighted 

to know ? 



144 FOREST RUNES. 

Some drowsily swing to their anchors, as the meandering tides 

go by ; 
Some battle in frozen oceans, where the northerly gales are 

high ; 
Some drift in the seething tropics, with keels upturned to the 

sky. 

Oh, grand is the lofty clipper, as she dashes the yeasty brine 
From the crest of the midnight billow, where the waters flash 

and shine. 
But I love the plebeian lugger — the little lugger is mine. 

And lofty clipper or lugger, it comes to the same at last, 

Or whether we count as wreckage, or hold to our moorings 

fast, 
When we swing to a final anchor, and the voyage of life is past. 



THE CAVAN GIRL. 



OH fair are Ireland's daughters, with their laughter loving 
eyes, 
Their wit a constant quantity, their love a sweet surprise ; 
And of all girls that walk this earth with glowing form or smile, 
The fairest is the Cavan girl, the queen o' the Emerald Isle. 
Her heavy tresses are blue-black, her eyes, a violet blue ; 
You look far down into their depths ; in turn, they look you 

through. 
Men come and go ; the seasons change ; fortune may smile, 

and pass, 
Her love endures while life endures ; such is the Cavan lass. 
No drunkenness nor coarse abuse can make that love abate, 
Her love for once is love for aye, and cannot turn to hate. 
Oh, leeze me on the Cavan girl, with eyes o' the violet shade, 
And blue-black hair ; and take who will the light haired Saxon 

maid. 



OLD JOHNNY JONES. 

OLD Johnny Jones was a colored man, 
Wrinkled, decrepit and old. 
He had an acre of arable land, 

But never a dollar in gold. 
And Johnny had dwelt in the Southerners' land, 
And been coffled, and bought, and sold. 

His heart was leal as the day was long, 

And he was merry and kind. 
He lightened his labor with dance and song 

Until he grew lame and blind. 
Then crept away from the heartless throng 

And prayed with a fervent mind. 

Old Johnny has gone to his final rest, 

He has learned a loftier tune. 
He passed the gates of the golden west 

On a glorious eve in June ; 
And his banjo * twangs in the halls* of the blest 

To a grand old Hebraic rune. 

*Johnny did not understand harps. 



IN THE TROPICS. 

WE cleit the waves, mound after mound, 
And still it seemed as we had not 
Advanced, but when the sun went down, 
Were in the self-same spot. 

Strange seabirds all the weary days 

Circled about the pilot house. 
Flashing in blue and golden rays 

Bright dolphins held carouse. 

The southeast trades with gentle breeze 
Swept o'er us with a breath of balm. 

We only longed for land and trees, 
For homelike rest and calm. 

At early morn the sea was blue, 

It still was blue at close of day. 
Forever old, forever new, 

It was the same alway. 



148 FOREST RUNES. 

At noon we shrank beneath the sun 
That flamed in splendor overhead ; 

At evening, when the day was done, 
We made the deck our bed. 

We watched amid the thin pale mist 
That glimmers o'er these summer seas, 

Peering through banks of amethyst 
For mangubeira trees. 

And thus, at length, through seas of calm, 
And waves that changed from blue to green, 

We made the blessed isles of Palm, 
With silver waves between. 

We were aweary and had rest ; 

We were an hungered and were fed. 
When sank the sun adown the west, 

The hammock was our bed. 

At morn the humming bird was seen, 
Flashing thro' many a fairy bower, 

An emerald of the brightest green, 
Set in a crimson flower. 

We missed the crash and roar of trade, 
The murky mills that shriek and groan, 

To smoke and swing in tropic shade, 
Where hurry is unknown. 



IN THE TROPICS. 149 

And, though we missed the mountain breeze 

With balmy breath of feathery pines, 
We found fair groves of orange trees, 

And ever flowering vines. 

We missed the maids with golden curls 

And azure eyes of love and light, 
But danced and sang with dark haired girls 

Whose eyes were just as bright. 

We missed the northern star at night, 
We missed the cooling breeze at morn ; 

We missed the slowly waning light, 
The fields of waving corn. 

Oh clear and pure the stars may shine, 

And brighter than in northern lands ; 
And gorgeous flowers may deck the vine 

That sweeps the silver sands ; 

And rich and rare the birds may be 

That gem the banks of Amazon, 
And bright the sheen of vine and tree, 

With golden fruit upon ; 

But dull stagnation, like a pall, 

Hangs o'er the land so fair and frail ; 
It is the Serpent land — and all 

Bear witness of the trail. 



150 FOREST RUNES. 

What wonder if we came to long, 
Or that the longing daily grew, 

For northern birds in silvery song, 
And lakes of limpid blue. 

What wonder if the gay macaws 

Gave less delight than homely birds, 

Or that we tired of Romish laws, 
And longed for Saxon words. 

PARA, NORTH BRAZIL, June IO, 1867. 



THE MAMELUCO DANCE. 

J^pWAS night, and bowered amid tall, feathery palms, 

JL Belem the Beautiful by moonlight slept, 
And o'er the red-tiled roofs that lay aslant, 
Flecked with the swaying shadow of the trees, 
Came faint, low music, and the rhythmic chime 
Of many feet, that, through the tropic night, 
Untired, untiring, shook the trellised vines 
That veiled the lattice windows ; and the voice, 
Wild, pleading, passionate, of him who played 
The primitive zambrina, broke at times 
Upon the midnight cadence of wild sounds, 
And as the pleading passion of his song 
Came o'er the dancers, one and all joined in 
For a brief verse, and a low wail arose, 
And passed away, as 'twere a spirit's cry. 
Idly I swung my hammock to and fro, 
Wooing the sleep that came not. What to me 
Were Mameluco dances ? What cared I 
For wild Cabano songs that mourned the time 
When Vinagre and Malcher led the hosts 
Of the Cabanos, and the streets that slept 



152 FOREST RUNES. 

So peacefully by moonlight were the scenes 

Of butcheries at which the soul recoils ? 

Or what to me the desolate wail of those 

Who mourned the dusky warriors from the isles 

Of Amazonas ? And I turned and strove 

To shut all thought of wild Cabano chiefs, 

All sound of song or dance, far out of mind. 

In vain. For, ever as the silence fell, 

The constant, low, unceasing monotone 

Of the zambrina smote upon the ear, 

Mixed with the chiming cadence of the dance. 

While ever and anon the passionate wail 

Of the Cabano chorus, in a key, 

Minor and mournful, thrilled my northern blood 

To most unwonted heat. 

Why should I strive 
For sleep that would not come ? Here was a phase 
Of human life and passion, little known 
To all the many writers whose deft pens 
Have chronicled the wonders and wild scenes 
Of Amazonas. I arose and donned 
Such clothing as a northerner may need 
Within the tropics. Lightest fabrics serve, 
In this warm clime, so that they be but clean, 
And worn, ev'n as the morals of the land, 
Loosely but gracefully. 



THE MAMELUCO DANCE. 153 

I sought the gate, 
And was admitted by a courtly slave 
Whose bow had won the heart of Chesterfield. 
A rustic house, whose many-latticed walls 
Gave freest scope to all of air that stirred 
Beneath the swaying palms. A heavy door, 
Swinging ajar to such as might approach 
With courteous word and mien. An earthen floor ; 
A long, quaint room, and latticed-windows, where 
Strange vines and gorgeous roses intertwined 
Sighed to the soft sea-breeze. A scent of flowers, 
Faint but delicious ; and a dusky band 
Of rude musicians, who all night kept up 
The tune untiring, with the startling wail 
Of Tupi chorus changefully thrown in. 
A medley of wild faces and lithe forms ; 
A waving sea of dancers, whose free grace 
Was like the leisure of a petted swan. 
And much of simple love, and courtesy 
That seemed a thing inborn, were shown by all. 
Hard by the door that opened to the hall, 
There stood a broad, low-spreading palm whose shade 
Made blackest midnight ; and, from underneath 
The feathery leaves a scowling face with dark, 
And serpent eyes, peered ever and anon 
Within the room, watching the changing dance 
Much as a waiting python eyes his prey. 



154 FOREST RUNES. 

The evil, vengeful face was naught to me, 
Yet, such a face once seen will haunt the soul, 
Like the vague trouble of a shapeless dream. 
I joined the dusky throng, and straightway felt 
The wild, strange chorus stir my Saxon blood, 
As when a cry of anguish wakes the ear 
Upon the middle of the quiet night. 

It was a simple measure that they danced, 

Well suited to the drowsy monotone 

Of the zambrina, played by native hands, 

Save when the chorus rose, and Malcher's name 

Raised Tupi blood to frenzy. Then they swayed 

As bends the forest to a sudden gale, 

Dancing with tight clasped hands, and eager eyes 

Bent on the roof above ; — a moment thus, 

Then, as the wail died out, they once again 

Resumed the easy step and languid mien, 

While glances from dark eyes, and meaning looks 

Changed with the changing mazes of the dance 

There is a nameless charm about these girls, 

With their dark eyes, and masses of black hair 

Falling disheveled over shapely neck 

And bust a duchess might be proud to own. 

A grace of mien and manner, seldom seen 

Where fashion sets the bounds, and stiff-backed men 



THE MAMELUCO DANCE. 155 

Bow, after a set form, to courtly dames, 
Who sink all lines of female grace, to grace 
A graceless fashion of a graceless time. 

Among the dancers there were two who stood 

Pre-eminent o'er all the rest, in form, 

In feature, and the nameless winning charra 

That makes Eve's sons and daughters lovable. 

The one, a dusky maiden from the isle 

Of Oncas ; lithe and tall, with waving hair, 

Ink-black, and falling o'er, in glossy waves, 

A pair of shoulders, such as might have graced 

The love of Anthony for Egypt's queen. 

Her mate, a dark eyed Vaquero, who roamed 

A lord among the herds of Marajo. 

I only noted that he had a form 

Of manly comeliness, vouchsafed to few ; 

A fierce, free manner, such as suits with those 

W.ho throw the lasso, and whose lives are passed 

Among wild beasts and wilder, fiercer men, 

Upon the treeless campos. Courteous too, 

He was ; but that is little in a land 

Where courtesy is natural to all. 

These two, the maiden and her cavalier, 

Had eyes or words but for each other. One 

May find such cases in the land where suns 

Are hot and constant, and the sultry clime 



156 FOREST RUNES. 

Sends mischief coursing through the veins of men 
No less than women. 

Two short days before, 
And he who scowled beneath the spreading palm 
Had sought the favor of the queenly girl 
In vain. Her love was lavished on the man 
Who wore the scarlet sash and silver spurs 
That mark a rider chief of Marajo. 

'Twas in the small hours of the early morn, 

When wearied with the dance they paused to rest 

And drink, as is their wont, and raise the song 

And wailing chorus for the dusky dead 

Who sleep in nameless graves along the banks 

Where Alta Amazonas meets the sea. 

The song was of the rudest ; yet it had 

A simple pathos, such as may be heard 

Where'er the Tupi tongue is understood, 

Or the Tapuyo treasures up his wrongs, 

To pour them out in wild impassioned rhythm. 

And there was something in the mournful wail 

That spoke the cadenced language of despair. 

No savan I, nor skilled in any tongue 

Save the plain English that I learned to lisp 

Beside a mother's knee. If I translate 

Too rudely or too freely, be the fault 



THE MAMELUCO DANCE. 157 

On me, and me alone. The Vaquero, 
With rich, deep voice that suited well the man, 
Chanted the body of the simple song, 
While all joined in the chorus, and the wail 
Rose like a Celtic Keenah for the dead. 

TUPI LAMENT. 

We sing the noble dead to-night 

Who sleep in jungle covered graves. 

We sing the" brave who fell in fight 
Beside the Amazona's waves, 

The white man counts us with his beasts, 

And makes our girls the slaves of priests. 
Woe, woe for the Cabano ! 

Our war canoes came down the stream, 
We stormed their hosts at Cam-e-ta ; 

Obidos saw our lances gleam. 
We swept their forces at Para, 

But English ships were on the waves. 

And still our girls are serfs and slaves. 
Woe, woe for the Cabano ! 

We drove them from the Tocantins, 
We swept them from the Tapajoz. 

A feeble race with feeble means, 
Our courage conquered all our foes. 

Note. — Cabanos, dwellers in cabins. 



158 FOREST RUNES. 

But English ships and English men 
Have made us serfs and slaves again. 
Woe, woe for the Cabano ! 

We were a fierce avenging flood 
That no Brazilian force could stem. 

We reddened all their towns with blood, 
From Onca's isle to Santarem, 

But ah, our best are in their graves 

And we again are serfs and slaves ! 
Woe, woe for the Cabano ! 

Accursed be the war canoe 

That bore the wily Joachim ; 
And God requite the Mundurucu 

Who slew our sires at Santarem. 
For on their heads shall rest the guilt 
Of Indian blood by Indians spilt. 

Woe, woe for the Cabano ! 

The song was ended, and the dancers stood 
With hands upraised and eyes turned heavenward, 
When he who watched beneath the spreading palm 
Entered the room with swift and noiseless tread, 
Stole on the dancers with an Onca's step, 
Dealt on the Vaquero two swift, light blows 
That fell between the clavicle and ear, 



THE MAMELUCO DANCE. 159 

Then vanished into darkness with a speed 
That mocked pursuit. 'Twas done so quietly, 
So quickly, and the blows were such mere taps, 
That I could scarcely deem the whole a thing 
Of serious import ; but, I wronged the man. 
He had more skill in murder than I thought. 

The Vaquero with quick, convulsive start, 
Flashed from its sheath a keen Damascene blade, 
But all too late. The murderer was away. 
And the bright life blood welled in crimson jets, 
While, drawn to his full height, the rider stood 
A moment, as the scarlet tide o'erflowed 
The velvet doublet, gaudy sash, and thence 
Adown the wide slashed trowsers to the spurs ; 
Then slowly sank upon the earthen floor, 
With head soft pillowed on the swelling breast 
That wrought his ruin. 

'Twas a ghastly sight. 
The queenly maiden with her snowy robes 
Drenched crimson in the life-blood of the man 
Who held her heart. Wildly she strove to staunch 
The intermitting tide that kept strange pace 
With every heart-beat, lavishing meanwhile 
Terms of endearment and wild words of love 
Upon the dying man, whose paling lips 
Answered with love again. 



160 FOREST RUNES. 

Short shrift had he. 
Two gaping wounds, the least of which might let 
The strongest life out in a short half hour, 
Soon sped him on the road whence none return. 
The well turned head, with its broad, open brow, 
Sank heavy on the blood bespattered breast 
That beat for him alone. The ashy lips 
Strove vainly to articulate a prayer, 
Or, it might be, a last fond word of love ; 
But, even as he strove, with gasping breath 
The soul went out. 

There was the usual fuss 
That Latin races make about their dead. 
Firstly a priest, with shaven crown and dull, 
Lack-luster eye, mumming some papish rite 
O'er the unheeding clay. A surgeon next, 
Striving to split the difference which lay 
Betwixt his dignity and need of haste. 
Also, he may have been somewhat in doubt 
About his fee. Then the police, who made 
An absurd pretense of awakened zeal, 
Searching vine-covered arbors and old walls, 
Peering in ruined buildings, and about 
The orange groves and gardens, knowing well 
The man was in the jungle, and they might 
With equal thrift attempt to ferret out 
A needle in a field of drifting sand. 



THE MAMELUCO DANCE. l6l 

Two ancient negresses with staring eyes, 
Long, skinny arms, and hands like vultures' claws, 
Removed the clotted blood and dried the floor. 
Four Topugos bore off the murdered man, 
Preceded by the priest, and at his side 
The maiden, in her blood-bedraggled robes. 
The dancers took their places as before ; 
And, as I sought my hammock, there arose 
The same zambrina's tinkling monotone, 
Timing the rhythmic tread of dancing feet. 



A TROPICAL SCRAP. 

FRONTING the casa, where I swing 
My hammock in this sultry clime, 
There comes the low, unceasing chime 
Of Southern folk, who dance and sing. 

I hear strange cries of bird and beast, 
I hear faint chimes from Ma-ca-pa ; 
I see faint lights that gleam afar, 

I watch the moon rise in the east ; 

The tropic moon, that northern eyes 
May never see so near, or bright, 
And tropic fire-flies, whose strange light, 

Through the dark hours will sink and rise. 

MARAJO, NORTH BRAZIL, Sept. 20, 1870. 



TYPEE. 

A THOUSAND leagues from the cnme of snow, 
In an evergreen isle in a coral sea, 
Where the bread-fruit tree and the cocoanut grow, 
Is the dreamy and beautiful vale of Typee. 

The reign of summer is ever there, 

Ever the waters like crystal flow ; 
Dreamily, balmily sleeps the air 

On lilies in clusters, like banks of snow. 

Adown the valley a sparkling brook 

O'er silvery pebbles winds its way 
By many a shady evergreen nook, 

To the coral waves of a land-locked bay. 

Up the stream, in the soothing shade, 

Its waters expand in a glassy pool, 
And hither comes each Typeean maid 

To bathe in its waters so clear and cool. 



TYPEE. 163 

And nut-brown naiads, with swan-like ease 
Flash through the water like rays of light, 

Or roam together these groves of peace 

To weave bright garlands for heads as bright. 

And forms that are cast in beauty's mold, 

Glowing with vigor, in action free, 
Display ripe charms more precious than gold. 

Such are the maids of the vale of Typee. 



TO GEN. T. L. YOUNG. 

BECAUSE my soul is weary, and 
For that old days come back in dreams, 
With visions of cool mountain streams 
That bubble in a northern land ; 

And that I tire of palms and vines, 

And hate the papaguyo's squall, 

And long for apples in the fall 
And hunter camps, and breath of pines ; 

And that my soul is sick to-day, 
With waiting on a trifling race 
Where oily tongue and smiling face 

Are prone to palter and betray ; 

And that I do remember all 

Old friends with whom I walked the lines 
Y-blazed on beechen trees or pines, 

And every pool or waterfall 

Where crimson spotted trout would rise ; 
And that I watch the hours away 
For white winged ships from New York Bay 

Whose striped flags bear starry eyes — 



TO GEN. T. L. YOUNG. 165 

For these, and for the thoughts that stir 
Within me, I will slaughter time 
And break the limping legs of rhyme, 

Garrulous of the days that were. 

Far down the bay, on either hand 

I see the sleeping islands lie 

In beauty, underneath a sky 
Bluer than in our northern land. 

A living scroll of evergreen 

Sweeps downward to the sluggish stream, 
Where gorgeous insects flash and gleam 

Like gems, athwart the vernal sheen. 

By Ma-ca-pa the crisp waves curl 

Where music sounds the whole night long, 
And wild Cabano dance and song 

Are done by dark-haired Muri girls. 

There dusky maids bedecked with flowers 

Dance under mangubeira trees, 

And indolence, and love, and ease 
Make up the sum of tropic hours. 

The firelight gleams on eyes of jet 

And maiden breasts of nuttiest brown, 
Slow palpitating up and down, 

Like summer waves that heave and set. 



1 66 FOREST RUNES. 

The hidden tropic fire I see 

Flash out in every dusky face ; 

But I am of a manlier race, 
And these are naught to mine or me. 

And soon I take the watery plain 

Where many a white winged ship has sailed 
For home. And some have fought and failed, 

In fierce typhoon or hurricane. 

And so — for that my heart is sick — 

I write to him who left in fee 

The whiskey bottle in the tree, 
Far up the forks of Freeman Creek. 

PARA, NORTH BRAZIL, Oct., 1870. 



ROSES OF IMEEO. 



THE sun is bright in other climes, 
And bright the crystal waters flow. 
The trees as gently woo the wind, 
As sweetly rare the roses grow ; 
But ah, within our northern climes 
They only bloom at fitful times. 

Listless, I sit and watch the waves 
As drowsily they ebb and flow, 

Fresh from the coral groves and caves 
About the Isle of Imeeo, 

And wonder how I could exist 

In sleet and snow, and northern mist. 

All day the sun shines warm and bright, 
Be it December, March, or June. 

And damask roses court the sight 
At dewy morn or drowsy noon. 

For in no other land will grow 

Such roses as on Imeeo. 



1 68 FOREST RUNES. 

Inland a league there sleeps a vale, 
The mystic valley of Martair, 

Where nut-brown maids weave lilies pale 
And roses, in their dusky hair, 

And fairy forms and starry eyes 
Dance underneath cerulean skies. 



A DREAM OF THE TROPICS. 

I DREAMED that I dwelt in the brightest of climes 
And the fairest of isles, in a tropical sea. 
Where summer extends, thro' all seasons and times, 
Her loveliest smiles over blossom and tree ; 

That the skies of the isle were invitingly blue ; 

That the birds were of plumage the richest and rarest. 
That sweetly and gently the soft falling dew 

Kissed orange tree blossoms and lilies the fairest. 

I dreamed that the maids of the isle were as fair 

As the goddess of love when she rose from the ocean, 

With love-lighted eyes and a wealth of. dark hair, 
That might claim from a poet a life-long devotion ; 



A DREAM OF THE TROPICS. 1 69 

That I wandered at night by the light of the moon 

With bright laughing girls, thro' the spice scented groves, 

Or dreamily sailed o'^er the glassy lagoon, 

And slumbered afloat in the star-lighted coves. 

'Twas a dream, and it passed. I awoke with the dawn ; 

Coldly awoke to the hard and the real, 
The snow deeply drifting on meadow and lawn 

Dispelled all too quickly my fairy ideal. 

I have wandered since then in those tropical seas, 
On coral reefed islands have tarried full long ; 

But I found that the zephyrs were fraught with disease, 
And the paradise birds were all wanting in song. 



DESILUSAO. 

TO-DAY I go aside to weep — 
To play the woman with mine eyes, 
As one who in his anguish cries 
For rest, and everlasting sleep. 

The weary seasons went and came, 
And hairs were getting thin and gray, 
While, in a secret, quiet way, 

I wrought for what were wealth and fame. 

At length my plans approached the turn 
Where culmination waits on hope ; 
And, only asking trial scope, 

I said, Approach, and see, and learn. 

And men, suspending judgment till 

The proofs were ripe, looked on and said, 
"He has not wrought with level head — 

His plans looked well, they ripen ill." 



DESILUSAO. 1 7 I 

And they said well. The truth is true, 

And men, God wot, are mainly just. 

Whatever is, whatever must 
Be true, they take — but not on trust. 

And I bow down ; and only pray 

That others, better counting cost, 

May rightly win where I have lost, 
And straighten where I went astray. 

And having lost ten years of life 

Attempting what was not to be, 

I find myself again at sea, 
With bread to win for child and wife. 

This only. And a single day 

I give to solitude and grief 

That the swelled heart may find relief — 
And then to labor — as I may. 



AN ARKANSAS IDYL. 

Suggested by newspaper accounts of a Southern family feud, in which the 
adult males on either side were nearly exterminated — the feud being finally set- 
tled by intermarriage. 

IN a half decayed log cabin, on the shore of Apple Lake, 
Dwelt a lank, ill-favored squatter by the name of Poker 
Jake, 
(Which his real name was Likens), and he raised a motley crew 
Of tow-headed sons and daughters, as such fellows mostly do, 
Without culture or good manners, and with no regard for law, 
Trained to loafing, drinking, fighting, and to fish and shoot and 

chaw. 

Seven miles below Old Likens, by a marshy, muddy sloo, 

At the turning of the river, lived Old Simmons and his crew ; 

And as between the fathers or the sons of either gang, 

It would be very hard to say which most deserved to hang. 

And yet, though they were ornery, it must be freely owned, 

They were exceeding chivalric — surprisingly high-toned. 

One of them might abstract a horse, or rob the mail by night — 

But just insinuate he lied — he'd slice you up on sight. 



AN ARKANSAS IDYL. 173 

Now, old man Likens had a mule, a spike-tailed smoky gray, 
Which Ikey Simmons found at large, and claimed it as a stray, 
And took it off and sold it, and pocketed the dust, 
Which filled the tribe of Poker Jake with anger and disgust. 
Then Yancey Likens took his gun and sallied out alone, 
And soon the tribe of Simmons had a funeral of their own. 

Such summary proceedings in a rural neighborhood 
Produce unpleasant feelings, and result in nothing good. 
For David Simmons took his gun, and lay for Poker Jake, 
And shot him, catching catties, in a dugout on the lake. 

Then all the neighbors felt that this had gone too deep for fun, 

And that a deadly quarrel had undoubtedly begun. 

For Yancey Likens at the grave was heard to swear aloud, 

He'd lay for every Simmons and exterminate the crowd ! 

It was a rash expression, and could only be condoned 

By the fact that he was fiery, and uncommonly high-toned. 

Likewise he, was the coolest man, and hardest shot by odds — 

He had been known to hit a deer at five and forty rods. 

The Simmons cabin faced the sloo, with just a path between, 
And on the other side came down the forest, dense and green. 
And just within the forest's edge, beside a sycamore, 
Did Yancey Likens take his stand, to watch the cabin door. 
And when he saw old Simmons come meandering round the 

sloo, 
He took a rest across a log, and bored him through and through ! 



174 FOREST RUNES. 

Old Simmons had a daughter — Martha Washington by name, 
A round-limbed, blue-eyed, handsome jade, of most decided 

game. 
And she had loved this Yancey — but that was over now — 
She took a shotgun from its hooks, and registered a vow. 
She loaded up both barrels with the biggest kind of shot, 
And went gunning after Yancey. Yancey, he got up and got. 
He was as brave in single fight as any man unhung, 
But could he harm the girl he loved, so brave, so fair and 

young ? 

And so, although she prowled around, and hid beside the road, 
And bushwhacked every cowpath that led to his abode, 
And though Ma'am Likens got a charge of bird shot in a place 
That caused her to repose at night by lying on her face, 
And though old granny Simmons, picking chips beside her door, 
Got hit just where Ma'am Likens had been hit the week before, 
And though Andrew Jackson Likens got a bullet in his thigh, 
She could get no shot at Yancey. Yancey held his hand too 

high. 
Perhaps if Yancey chose to tell, he might explain just how 
It happened no one shot at her in all this precious row. 

But, anyway, she had her way, and played the Indian scout, 
Until one afternoon, when strength and pluck were giving out, 
She sought a quiet spot, and scraping leaves into a heap, 
But meaning still to keep awake, dropped calmly off to sleep, 



AN ARKANSAS IDYL. J 75 

And dreamed her love dream o'er again, and that 'twas early 

spring, 
And Yancey Likens came to her, and brought the wedding ring. 
But when he strove to put it on, she saw it, with alarm, f 

Expand, and slip above her hand, and rest upon her arm. 
And then the ring began to shrink, until it grew so tight, 
The sharp compression caused her pain, and woke her in a 

fright. 
And then she saw, with sudden fear, a pair of brawny fists, 
That most uncompromisingly imprisoned both her wrists ! 

She fought like any mountain cat, and in her struggles swore 
She never had been so misused by any man before. 
She wrenched herself as she had been an acrobat on show, 
And shrieked, "You low-down, ornery pup, how dar you 

squeeze me so ! " 
But still the iron grip remained, and o'er her shoulders fell 
The steady gaze of steel-gray eyes— the eyes she knew so well ! 
A laughing face looked down on hers, and all in vain she tried 
To free herself, and then— and then she wilted down and cried. 
Ma'am Likens, with a water-gourd, went hobbling to the spring. 
She was too old and lame to dance— too cussed mad to sing. 
She crooned and grumbled in her wrath, until she met her son, 
A-galivanting down the path, with Martha Washington ! 

No matter how they compromised each ugly word and deed — 
Young Yancey had the leading mind— and leading minds will 
lead. 



176 FOREST RUNES. 

They sent young Thomas Benton Likens off to bring a priest, 
Likewise, a keg of applejack — ten gallons at the least. 
The tribe of Simmons all came up — the Likenses were there, 
The neighbors swore they ne'er before had seen a bride so fair.* 
Young Yancey led the festive dance, with Martha at his side, 
While Montagues and Capulets pranced after them with pride. 
Ma'am Likens, primed with applejack, went halting thro' a reel, 
While Granny Simmons in her chair kept time with toe and 
heel. 

They smoked the fragrant cob of peace, they drank their toddy 

hot, 
They swore an everlasting truce and sealed it on the spot. 
By digging underneath a tree a narrow grave and deep, 
And burying the tomahawk where Martha went to sleep 



*This was written years before Joaquin Miller's "William Brown, of 
Oregon," saw the light. 



THE SCALP HUNTER IS INTERVIEWED. 

^ \ 7ES, I'm the man you're talkin' about, the Brute that 

X murders the Soos 

On the upper Athabasca ; an' you kin tell 'em the news 
Down East, where they print the Tribune, and the Quaker peo- 
ple blow 
About the wrongs of the Red man. It's cursed little they know 
About the wrongs of the White man, for you want to recollect 
Thet a white man hez no rights which a red is bound to 
respect. 

So, they've got me into the papers ; and I am a ' Fiend,' and 

'whar 
I find a squaw or a papoose, I shoot 'em an' raise the har ?' 

It's tol'able true, I reckon. As sure as you're alive, 
I've hunted them dev'lish redskins, till I've scalped some thirty- 
five! 

Wouldn't 'a thought I could done it ? Well, the yarn is middlin' 

tough, 
For the devils are mighty cunnin' an' the country is cold an 

rough, 



178 FOREST RUNES. 

An' I was alone for the most part. There was three of us at 

the start ; 
But they shot Jim Biddle one mornin', with an arrer, thro' the 

heart. 

An' we had to cache for safety, Tom Burlingame an' me, 

For the Soos war right upon us, an' Tom was hit in the knee 

An' couldiit run. So, seein' our fix, it seemed more wise 
To cache in a pra'rie dugout, an' sell at the goin' price. 

We played our hands right lively ; killed seven, did Tom an' I, 
Besides a few that was gut-shot, an' hid in the grass to die. 

But they played it low down on us ; heaped pra'rie grass an' 

sticks 
About our den an' smoked us out. 'Twas one of their Injun 

tricks. 

No use to tell how they flanked us with their blasted savage fun, 
Makin' us run the ga'ntlet — -only Tom, he couldn't run. 

So they tied him with buff'ler lariats to a stake driv' in the 

ground, 
An' roasted him by a slow lire, while they hooted an' danced 

around. 

They cut out his tongue, cut his ears off, then keerfully saved 

his har 
By peelin' the scalp — it's a wonder what a mountain man kin 

bar 



THE SCALP HUNTER IS INTERVIEWED. 179 

Without peepin' ; an' Tom was bully ; quiet, silent, an' grim. 
They tried all manner of torments, but never a yelp from hirn. 

He died as game as a badger. They 'lowed to keep me a spell, 
Then git up an Injun pow-wow, an' give me special hell. 

An' they would 'a done it certain, for I was cowed an' lame, 
But Sheridan's men war on it, an' blocked that little game. 

Bust into the camp one mornin', an' scattered the gang like 

chaff, 
Killed an' wounded a hundred. — Oh no, / didn't laugh ! 

' Providential,' was it ? Don't seem to see it that way. 
Sheridan giv' the order — soldiers mostly obey. 

Good fellers, them boys o' Sheridan's ; they did the handsome 

thing, 
Cured me up an' fitted me out for another start in spring. 

Giv' me a navy Colt, a knife, an' rifle, an' hoss, 
Told me to raise the har of every Soo I kem across, 

An' I've mostly done it. ' Git me ? ' Of course the game'll turn. 
But I shall go under fightin', — I aint a-goin' to burn ; 

I've seen that once too often. An' stranger, don't talk too loud 
When you tell of the old scalp hunter some day to an Eastern 
crowd. 

Remember thar ain't no story but is bound to hev two sides, 
And thar's reason for every bullet I stick in their blasted hides. 



I So FOREST RUNES. 

For / had a wife an' children, which the same was dear to me, 
Murdered in Minnesota, the year of the massacre. 

I might hev stood the killin', though hit was savage enougn — 
But stakin' a woman down to the ground is playin' it dev'lish 
rough. 

The way they murdered my little gals of twelve an' fourteen 

years — 
No matter — swearin' is too thin, an' I don't run to tears, 

They blur the eyes for shootin'. But mebbe you might git riled, 
If I told you the sickenin' trick they played my wife an' unborn 
child. 

I found her out on the pra'rie with a stake drove through her 

breast, 
An' the babe right on her bosom. — Perhaps you can guess the 

rest. 

'Twas a hellish sight for a father. My heart froze hard right thar. 
I dried clean down to ugliness, an' went in wicked for har. 

I've panned 'em down to the bed-rock, 'n' I reckon afore I've 

done, 
The scalps of my wife an' children will bring me twenty for one. 

And when you write to the papers, if you want to mention me, 
Remember Minnesota, and tell of the massa^rm?. 



THE BANSHEE OF McBRIDE. 

IN the Island of Unreason, where the bog is green and wet, 
Where no sequences of reason prove a consequence, or 
debt ; 
Where deductions from equations are derided or denied, 
And the table of the multiples is laughed at and decried, 
Stands a mud and granite edifice, the Castle of McBride. 

And of all the brave old families that date from King O'Toole, 
The ancient lines of Donohue, O'Grady or McDhoul, 
O'Neil, O'Brien, or Callahan, or Murphy or Burnside, 
No one could show a pedigree or date like The McBride. 

No ancient Irish family from Kerry to Tyrone 

Would be complete unless it had a Banshee of its own ; 

And of all the howling Banshees that wailed o'er storm and 

tide, 
The loudest and the shrillest was the Banshee of McBride. 

'Tis midnight, and the festive board is loud with drink and 

song; 
Lord Hugh is at his bravest, and the sitting will be long. 



1 82 FOREST RUNES. 

The punch is strong, the wit is keen — the storm may beat the 

pane — 
When did the Lord O' the Castle heed wind, or tide, or rain ? 

But o'er the scene there comes a voice that bates the revelers' 

breath, 
A wailing, long-drawn, moaning cry, that speaks of doom and 

death. 
And as all eyes are looking to the master of the feast, 
Lord Hugh arises slowly, turning sadly to the east 

Like an ancient necromancer. And he spoke in solemn words 
Of the old Milesian legends, and the voice of prophet birds, 
And how the grand ould families, the proudest of the land, 
Had been forewarned by mystic signs that none might under- 
stand. 

And then his lordship mixed the punch, and as he passed the 

bowl, 
Says he "whoever this may call, may heaven absolve his soul." 

Old Katy Nolan, broiling bones to keep the drinkers dry, 
She crossed herself in deadly fear to hear the Banshee's cry. 
She raised the keenah and bewailed, " Och, wirra, wirrasthrue, 
Who can the Banshee want this night — can it be Masther Hugh ? 

"Or is it Shamus, or mad Tom — who can it mane at all ? 
fSure, 'twouldn't be Miss Ellen, the life an' light o' the hall.) 



THE BANSHEE OF McBRIDE. 1 83 

•' Av it wor Masther Shamus, the blagyard who has spint 

A foine estate, an' ruined all the income and the rint — 

Och hone, he is the bravest lad, an' spirited an' kind — 

He rides the horses all to death, an' niver rides behind ; 

He sits the longest at the dhrink, he's first in dance or fight — 

But Och, a bigger blagyard doesn't walk the earth this night. 

" Or av 'twor Masther Thomas, the nuisance of the Hall, 
Who's always ready at the dhrink, an' always first to fall — 
He spends his money like a prince — whene'er he has to spind — 
(Bad luck to thim ould misers, that is so afeard to lind.) 

"Mayhap 'twould be Ould Teddy — the ouldest of the stock, 
An' him bed-rid sence Candlemas, by rayson of the shock. 
Av it is him — O howly saints, dale lightly for his sake — 
There's not an Irish gintleman could have a grander wake." 

Old Terence lay upon his cot, a withered, wasted form. 

He heard the Banshee's wailing cry above the crashing storm, 

And calling, in a feeble voice, O'Brien to his side, 

He said, "My lad, ye soon will see the last of The McBride. 

Go down an' spake to James an' Hugh, an' say the ould man 

thinks 
This night will be his last on earth— an' don't forget the 

dhrinks." 

And soon the ancient family came thronging to his door, 
Except young Tom— the blackguard— who lay drunk upon the 
floor. 



184 FOREST RUNES. 

They propped him up with pillows, with the punch in easy- 
reach, 

And listened while with trembling lips he made his dying 
speech. 

THE SPEECH. 

Jist touch the whiskey to me lips — arrah, I shan't be long. 
Shamus, my boy, what ails the punch ? You've wathered it too 

strong. 
'Tis wather spoils the best of dhrink — or have I lost me taste ? 
(O'Brien, take the cart, an' bring his riverence, the praste.) 

Och hone ! 'tis eighty years an' more I lived on this estate, 
An' never once oppressed the poor, or bowed before the great. 
An' tho' the property was spint long years before it came 
To me, I held it like a prince, an' you may do the same. 

Remember honor is yer life, an' never take the lie 

From any man, an' never be afraid to fight, or die. 

And kape the brave ould customs good, an' let the whiskey flow 

At Christmas, christenings, an' wakes ; an' as for friend an' foe, 

Turn a bould face to both o' thim. — An' never pay a debt — 

Onless ye pay a laborer, or praste, or honest bet. 

(The moneylendhers all are thaives.) An' kape yer shootin' fine 

By practice, and the steady hand that comes of punch an' wine. 



THE BANSHEE OF McBRIDE. 185 

Presarve the game ; an' whin the leaves are rustlin' on the 

ground, 
Remember there is other game, that lasts the sayson round, 
The partridge is in feather whin the lanes are brown an' sere — 
But the bailiff and the gauger are in sayson all the year. 

I lave this fine ould mansion as I found it. There is much 
That English laws would rendher to the moneylendhers' touch. 
I held the place for sixty years. I kep' it as I could — 
'Twill hould another sixty years — for thim as makes it good. 

I've said my say — Sanctissima. My spache is gettin' thick — 
An' here comes Father Shaughnessy — pass round the punch, 
avic." 

So passed away this brave old man, a real Irish Prince, 
Whom logic could not turn aside, nor argument convince. 
And he was right. He held his lands long after they were 

spent ; 
He gathered all his friends around, he gathered all the rent. 
He walked according to his light, and in his narrow way 
Absorbed much antique salary and antedated pay 
Let us be mindful of his deeds, and thankful for his sake, 
That no old Irish gentleman e'er had a grander wake. 



HOW MIAH JONES GOT DISCOURAGED. 

MI AH JONES was a powerful man, whose delight was a 
personal tussle. 
He could travel, if any one can, on his individual muscle. 
And he often remarked in his tramps, he wished some kind 

fortune would bring him 
A man who would ante the stamps, and endeavor to lick him 
or fling him. 

Daniel Rawson lived on a small farm, some twenty-two miles 

south of Wooster, 
And few had a leg or an arm like this agricultural rooster. 
He had heard of the bragging of Miah, but never had happened 

to know him ; 
And he said, "'f I was younger an' spryer, I'll bet I could 

lick him or throw him." 

Now, when Miah heard of this talk, he started right off for a 

visit, 
But happened to meet in his walk a sort ot bucolic "what is 

it?" 



HOW MI AH JONES GOT DISCOURAGED. 1 87 

Which the same was a load of dry hay, meandering over the 

gravel, 
And Miah was puzzled to say what caused such a haystack to 

travel. 

For there was no wagon nor team, yet the haystack kept 

silently going 
Like a lumbering ark on a stream, or a lazy old darkey-man 

mowing. 
But a voice came from under the load, at which Miah con- 

su-med-ly wondered, 
Saying, " They've loaded me up for a ton, and they've cheated 

me out of three hundred, 
Or my name ain't Rawson." 

Then Miah 
Walked pensively off from that image. 

Moral. 

For a gruffy old pill 

What can carry a ton 
Up a gravelly hill 

Ain't exactly the one 
That you want to pick up for a scrimmage. 



GREETING TO THE DEAD. 

WHERE the scarlet balm blossoms are nodding and 
swaying, 
Where a cool crystal brooklet is rippling and straying, 
A dusky-eyed infant is gleefully playing, 
Singing and playing the long summer day. 

Where the shade of the maple is waving and flitting, 
Wearily sewing, or cutting and fitting, 
Over the way, by the window, is sitting 
A widow T , in weeds of the dreariest gray. 

Down where the Father of Waters is flowing, 

Where orange trees bloom and the south wind is blowing, 

Down where the war-ships are coming and going 

To valorous deeds of the loyal and free, 

Sleepeth the husband and father. Quiescent 
He rests in his grave, where the waves iridescent 
Gild steeple and tower in the once haughty Crescent, 
That stands where the waters sweep down to the sea. 

Soul that no treason nor guile could inveigle, 
Dying in patience and pride that was regal, 
Firm hand of the fearless, bright eye of the eagle, 
A greeting we send to thy grave by the sea. 



NEW YEAR'S ODE.— 1866. 

THE Old must perish that the New may live, 
And what the Old hath lacked, the New shall give. 
The bugle's bray and crash of rolling drums 
Have ceased to weary, and the New Year comes 
Laden with promise, rich with budding hopes 
Of all men value most, while treason gropes 
In outer darkness, striving still to save 
Some barbarous relic from its traitor grave, 
Fierce to oppress, eager to crush the right, 
Arrogant still, though baffled in the fight, 
Sullenly pettifogging for the wrong, 
And slow to common justice. Not for long 
Shall this endure ; the nation's blood has bought 
The precious boon of liberty, and naught 
That treason dares or foreign foes may do 
Shall bar its progress. As the years run through 
Their changing seasons, brighter still shall grow 
The radiant goddess Freedom, who, although 
Her path be strewn with wrecks and martyrs' bones, 
Shall still march on o'er empires, kings and thrones. 



I90 FOREST RUNES. 

Ring out to-day a merry peal 
From every belfry in the land, 
Till every child may understand 

And every loyal heart shall feel 

That Freedom has a truer birth, 

A prouder right ; and we may claim 
The foremost place, the highest name 

Among the nations of the earth. 

Our bitter trial days are past ; 

And rich red blood that flowed like rain 
Has not been poured to earth in vain. 

Peace settles on the land at last, 

And yule logs burn, while those who grieve 
Shall gather round the Christmas fires 
Where gladdened mothers, sons and sires, 

Meet on this happy New Year's eve. 

To night beneath the glinting stars 

Full many a voice shall ring with mirth, 
While gathered round the social hearth 

We half forget the nation's scars. 

And many a mother's lip shall smile 
Whose heart is with the dead to-night, 
And many a maiden's eye grow bright 

Whose soul is sick with grief the while. 



BALLAD OF YE LEEK HOOK. 

OR, THE POTTER COUNTY VOLUNTEER. 

It is probably known to all well informed people that, in the early days of 
Potter County, Pa., the food of the inhabitants consisted mainly of trout, veni- 
son, and leeks. For convenience in digging leeks, a long spur, something like 
an old-fashioned bayonet, was (or might have been) worn on the heel. 

A BOLD young raftsman dwelt among the Potter County- 
pines. 
He had no shade trees round his hut, nor any flowers, nor vines, 
But yet he had a gallant heart, and when the war began 
He swore that he could whip Old Jeff — or any other man. 

And he has sold his brindle cow, likewise his yaller dog, 

And left his double bitted ax a stickin' in the log ; 

Has donned his brightest scarlet shirt. "And now," says he, 

" I shall 
Jest take a walk to Lungerville, and have a talk with Sal." 

When gentle Sally saw him come, she dropped her gathered 

leeks, 
Her waterfall came tumbling down— the roses left her cheeks ; 
" Oh John," she cried, " you're all drest up, an' I know what 

it's for, 
You're 'listed for a volunteer — you're goin' up to war ! " 



192 FOREST RUNES. 

" Oh Sally, dry your lovely eyes, an' do not be afraid, 
But bear thee gallantly, as should a Potter County maid ; 
And give to me some trifling thing — a token, ere I go, 
That I may wear it as a badge in presence of the foe." 

Then stooped the lovely blushing maid, and from her tiny heel 
Unstrapped a wondrous instrument, a shining spur of steel ; 
And " Wear thou this," the damsel said ; " for it shall be thy 

shield, 
The talisman against all harm upon the battle field." 

Oh many a field in Dixie's Land and many a Southland stream 
Have seen that fearless volunteer — that leek hook's awful gleam. 
And soon the Johnnies learned to say, " There comes the cussed 

Yank, 
Who wears a bayonet on his heel, and strikes us in the flank." 

At Malvern Hill, at Gettysburg, and at the Seven Pines, 
That fearful leek hook flashed like fire along the rebel lines. 
" Because," said John, " I hold it true, that any man of nerve 
Can kill more Rebs to go it on his individual curve." 

And so for three long years he fought, o'er many a weary mile, 
Killing six general officers, with scores of rank and file, 
For wheresoe'er that leek hook flashed, by river, hill or plain, 
'Twas there the fiercest fighting was — the biggest heaps of 
slain ! 



KING COTTON. X 9S 

All honor to the shining blade that digs the fragrant root, 
Yet makes a fearful weapon on a Potter County foot. 
All honor to our soldiers who the rebel cause have smashed — 
And let us pray that John and Sal may run together— lashed. 



KING COTTON. 

ALAS for the snow-white king, the milk-white feathery 
king, 
Who sat on a Southland throne, and ruled by the chain and 

rod; 
Who made his brother a chattel, his sister a shameful thing, 
And spat, in his arrogant pride, at the hand of God. 

For a blight is over his land, a skeleton sits at his hearth ; 

His crown is dragged in the mire, and his throne is a seat of 
shame. 
And he in his insolent pride shall perish from off the earth, 

While the coming ages shall blush to hear his name. 

SEPTEMBER, 1863. 



NON RESPONDAT. 

A WIDOW lives across the way, 
Lonely and sad, in sable weeds : 
With her own hands she clothes and feeds 
Herself and little daughter, May. 

I see her in the early dawn 

Busy about her daily toil, 

Tilling the mellow garden soil 
Or dressing weeds from out the lawn. 

And later still I see her sit 

With busy needle at her door, 

While fitful shadows on the floor 
With every zephyr wave and flit. 

The weary gurgling of the rill, 
The honey bee's low monotone, 
The waving shade, the pine trees' moan. 

The lowing kine upon the hill, 

The robins in their leafy screens, 

All, all remind her of the Lost 

Who calmly sleeps with white hands crossed, 
Beneath the sod at New Orleans. 



NON RESPOND AT. 1 95 

He was but one among the throng 

Who nobly fought at Pleasant Hill, 

And many a gallant fellow will 
Be missed as sadly and as long. 

But I have lost a brother, and 

The widow mourns by night and day 
The father of her little May 

Who molders in his grave of sand. 

We grieve ; but we are proud to know, 
When plunging shot and shrieking shell 
Made Pleasant Hill an earthly hell, 

His face was ever to the foe. 

O fearless heart and ready hand ! '■■ 

O brother of my early youth 

Whose word was synonym for truth, 
We greet thee in thy bed of sand. 

Thy calm brave face and eye serene 

We may not look upon again ; 

But we will keep, thro' joy and pain, 
The leaves of memory evergreen. 



SIXTY-FIVE AND JOHN BULL. 

AH, Sixty-five, you have but brought 
Us the beginning of the end. 
We have some grave mistakes to mend, 
Some claims to press that may be fraught 

With danger to another shore, 
Whose skilled builders drew and planned, 
Whose merchant princes built and manned 
Such pirates as the Shenandoah. 

You crammed our ears with neutral laws 

Against the stomach of our sense. 

Your statutes were but thin pretense, 
And only valued for their flaws. 

You played the Algerine, John Bull. 
You laid your cruisers on our track 
And furnished clubs to break our back 

Just when you saw our hands were full. 

You little thought four years to be 
A lifetime for the stars and bars, 
While yet the war-stained stripes and stars 

Should proudly float on every sea. 



SIXTY-FIVE AND JOHN BULL. 1 97 

And so you did a foolish thing : 
You turned upon us in our need, 
Bartered a nation's faith for greed, 

And kneeled to Cotton as a king. 

A staunch, strong friend you might have made 

Of this free nation, but you chose 

Your friends among our deadly foes, 
And squared your honor with your trade. 

Thousands of loyal men and true 
Sleep underneath the ocean's waves 
Or slowly rot in nameless graves 

Who had been living but for you. 

You swept our commerce from the seas : 

You have a commerce of your own ; 

And custom, gray with ages grown 
Bids us resent such wrongs as these. 

They lie who say we favor strife ; 
But we can plant a telling blow 
By land or sea, on any foe, 

Who aims against the nation's life. 

Be thine, O Sixty-five, the meed 
That guerdons valorous thought and deed. 
Thou shalt stand out in bold relief 
Among the years, the first and chief. 



198 FOREST RUNES. 

We are too near these huge events 
To see their grandeur. Ages hence, 
When time and distance lend a hue 
Of mild enchantment to the view, 
Let future generations say 
For what we battled in our day. 

Let struggling nations then decide 
If it were selfishness or pride, 
Or if the cause which Freedom dowers 
Be not their own, as well as ours. 



NEW YEAR'S ODE. 

WRITE me an ode, the printer said ; 
A sonnet for the new born year 
That cometh with its freight of fear, 
And doubt, and hope, and nameless dread. 

Alas ! is this a time to wield 

In trifling mood an idle pen ? 

The world shakes with the tread of men ; 
A million soldiers are afield. 

To-day, the all-time question rings 
In Sinaic tones throughout the land, 
" Shall any self-ruled nations stand ? 

Or are we born that priests and kings 

May rule and ride us ? " And to solve 
The question come the crash of arms, 
And smoking towns, and war's alarms, 

And daring deed and high resolve. 

The rotten thrones of Europe reel 

As crimson dims the bayonet's glance, 
And ring of saber, ax and lance 

Answers the clang of armed heel. 



FOREST RUNES. 

Emperors and kings grow pale with dread 
As from afar they scan the scene, 
Each wishing each to intervene, 

Each fearing for his throne and head. 

For, underneath each crown and throne 
Upheave a thousand years of wrong. 
The monarch fears a poet's song ; 

The people bow their necks and groan ; 

But not forever. They have found 

That thrones can fall and monarchs flee. 
Mine is no gift of prophecy, 

Yet as the circling years roll round, 

I hear a little bird that sings 
The people by and by shall be 
The stronger : and that time shall see 

The last of hierarchs and kings. 

Poor Freedom, faint and wan, to-day 
Is up for trial. And the cause 
Of equal rights and equal laAvs 

Leans heavily on the array 

Of armed hosts. For, since the flood, 
While tyrants ruled and cowards quailed, 
One simple rule has never failed, 

Freedom must be baptised in blood! 



NEW YEAR S ODE. 

Such is the rule. And when the surge 
Of charging columns shakes the plain, 
And rich red blood pours out like rain, 

Brave men shall sing no funeral dirge, 

But raise a grand old battle shout, 
Such as the Norseman raised of old, 
When, bursting from his mountain hold 

He put the southern hosts to rout. 

Our bitter trial days will pass 
So surely as the Summer rain 
Will bring song birds and flowers again, 

With billowy fields of grain and grass. 

And those who, fighting, nobly fell, 
Shall win a nation's all time thanks. 
Where death swept down their serried ranks 

They slumber peacefully and well. 

Then let us sing no sad refrain. 
The days are glorious, if but we 
With eyes of faith and hope will see 

The old prelude, in grander strain, 
Played o'er again to Liberty. 

JANUARY I, 1863. 



CRUSADING THE OLD SALOON. 

SCENE FIRST. 

V IF ^WAS three o'clock of an afternoon, 

JL. And trade was brisk in the old saloon. 
Old Schaeffer sat in his office-chair, 
With red mustache and well-combed hair, 
With pipe, and slippers, and pot of beer, 
And face betokening much good cheer ; 
While Hans and Peter brought ready mugs, 
Or rattled the demijohns, barrels and jugs; 
And plump Katrina, behind the bar, 
Kept track of the money for her papa. 
The old dog dozed in a sunny spot, 
Or crept in the shade when it grew too hot. 
The parrot, a native of hot Para, 
Walked, upside down, on his prison bar — 
Or, catching the pungent scent of cheese, 
Blasphemed in villainous Portuguese ; 
While three little mice with bellies white, 
Kept turning a wheel from morn till night. 



CRUSADING THE OLD SALOON. 203 

And all, on that pleasant Summer day, 
Drank friendly beer, and were blithe and gay, 
While the sun, with a mellow face of gold, 
Looked in, and laughed at the stories told. 

SCENE SECOND. ENTER CRUSADERS. 

There came a patter of gaitered feet, 

And chattering voices on the street, 

And cheeping, peeping noises aloof, 

Like a thousand sparrows upon the roof ; 

And the pipe fell away from the red mustache 

And the beer-mug went by the board with a crash, 

And a deadly nightmare horror arose 

Till it blanched the color in Schaeffer's nose, 

As there entered a tall, snap-eyed old maid 

With thirty followers, on a raid, 

And Schaeffer groaned, '"Tis der d d crusade !" 

They swarmed like bees at the open door, 
Crowded the bar, and covered the floor, 
And when they had it their own sweet way, 
The snap-eyed woman said, " Let us pray! " 
They prayed and chorused their level best, 
That over the country, from east to west, 
These liquor-sellers — these human ghouls — 
Might cease from ruining precious souls ; 
Till all the people, from sea to sea, 
Should sing the praises of Cambric tea, 



204 FOREST RUNES. 

And men, picked out of the moral mud, 

Should sound the glories of Noah's flood, 

While all, despising fever or shake, 

Should drink spring water, their thirst to slake. 

Old Schaeffer listened with open mouth, 

The parrot wished himself at the South, 

The dog crept under a beer-keg shelf, 

And each of the mice took care of himself. 

While of drinkers, smokers, bummers and beats, 

Nothing was left but the vacant seats. 

Slowly and solemnly Schaeffer rose, 

The color returned to cheeks and nose. 

Sadly he mounted his office-chair, 

And scratched for thought in his yellow hair, 

Till, partly in anger, partly in grief, 

In broken English he found relief : 

" Vot der tuyvel dis vomans all do here ? 

Vot is it your pizness apout mine beer ? 

Ven you got some pizness ov your own, 

'Tis petter you leaf mine house alone. 

You got some papies ? you got some house r 

You ole fool vomans ! Das maks nix ous! 

Hans, shump on der stool und open der door, 

And let dem dree leedle mouse on der floor ! " 

SCENE THIRD. 

And Hans, quick turning a button about, 
Let three little white-bellied mice jump out, 



CRUSADING THE OLD SALOON. 205 

Suddenly silencing prayer and song 

As they scattered and scampered among the throng. 

They scratched up stocking-legs, azure and white, 

In vain endeavors to climb out of sight. 

In columns and volumes of crinoline 

They strove to hide where they couldn't be seen. 

And that crusade mounted the stools and kegs, 

With skirts hugged tightly around their legs. 

While the grim, tall leader of their ranks, 

With dress well twisted about her shanks, 

And short hair bristling upon her scalp, 

Stood on a barrel and screamed for help, 

Till, seeing a chance for safe retreat, 

She led a charge for the open street, 

And the crusade rout became complete. 

MORAL. 

If three little mice can put to flight 
An army that battles for "truth and right," 
Is't likely they'll close old Schaeffer's house, 
Or stop his lager ? Nix cum arous. 



TEMPERANCE SONG. 



TUNE, "ALL ON HOBBIES. 



June, 1874. " The crusade " has reached Wellsboro — in an epidemic form. 
There is a wild feminine violence about it — an intensity of weak ferocity, so to 
speak, that is prophetic of a brief reign. I tried, by request, to compose a tem- 
perance song for the crusaders, but the afflatus petered out on a strong incline 
toward whiskev — worse luck 



IN coming down Main street I happened to meet 
A rosy-cheeked damsel crusading the street, 
And as she was well spoken and pleasant to see, 
I allowed her to run a crusade upon me, 
Chorus. — All on toddy ; 
Good by toddy ! 
Oh let everybody 
Go total on tea ! 

This sweet little damsel was free to maintain 
We were losing our labor and wasting our grain 
In maintaining a traffic — as bad as could be, 
While the number of drunkards was — fearful to see, 



TEMPERANCE SONG. 207 

Chorus. — Who all drank toddy ; 
Got drunk on toddy ! 
Oh let everybody • 
Go total on tea ! 

She ground the old arguments down to an edge, 
And ended ^at length by presenting a pledge, 
Which she hinted 'twould be my salvation to sign — 
But I modestly told her, not any in mine, 
Chorus — For I like toddy, 

Hot whiskey toddy ; 

Why should everybodv 

Their freedom resign ? 



O'LEARY'S LAMENT. 



The following little lament may be truthful, if not poetical. It expresses 
feelings of my Irish friend, Thomas O'Leary, late of Innisowen. 

I WISH I was in Innisowen, 
In Michael Hennessy's ould shebeen. 
Tis there I'd see bright wathers flowin' 
Wid shamrock green an' roses blowin' — 
For-bye a noggin of ould poteen. 



Me heart is sick wid this paradin' 

Of all the wimmin upon the sthreet, 
While they are on the town crusadin' 
The fires upon the hearth are fadin', 
The gossoons cry wid cowld bare feet 

Oh let us dhrink — in moderation, 

To aise our sadness an' banish gloom. 
Sure, many a glutton in this nation 
While praychin' temp'rance and salvation 
Has ate himself into the tomb. 



the 



WELLSBORO AS A TEMPERANCE TOWN. 

Under local option regime, Johnny O'Shea suffers from drouth, which the 
crusade bids fair to make chronic. The following song epitomises his idea of 
the matter. 

OH Wellsboro' isn't at all like a pra'rie, 
The hills round about it are lofty an' ah'rary, 
The bar-rooms are like the dhry sands of Sahara, — 
There's nothing to dhrink whin the Pilgrim is dhry. 

There's river an' mountain, 
There's streamlet an' fountain ; 
There's springs beyond countin' 

That niver run dhry. 
But whin a man's bate 
Wid the drouth an' the hate, 
Sure he has no retrate 

For a dhrop of ould rye. 

This nate little town is the bate of all places 
For rosy cheeked girls wid the brightest of faces. 
Ye may dance, av ye like, wid the muses an' graces — 
But there's nothing to dhrink whin the Pilgrim is dhry. 



FOREST RUNES. 

There's praychers and taychers, 
There's lawyers an' docthors ; 
There's judges an' procthors 

All causes to thry. 
But whin a man's bate 
Wid the dust an' the hate, 
He may walk off his fate 

For a dhrop of ould rye. 

'Tis there ye may hear the swate thrush or the linnet, 
Aich mornin' at daylight they're sure to begin it, 
But divil the dhrop of good whiskey is in it — 
There's nothing to dhrink whin the Pilgrim is dhry. 

Then give your bright wathers 

To fishes an' others, 
Wid the herons an' cranes that are wadin' the shore. 

Sure, a man is no porpus 

To wather his corpus, 
Whin he may have wine an' good whiskey galore. 



LIBRARY OP CONGRESS 

hi 111 ill urn ii iii ii i 1 ! 

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